


LOVE 
AND THE 
PHILOSOPHER 





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LOVE,—AND 
THE PHILOSOPHER 


MARIE CORELLI 











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LOVE—AND 
THE PHILOSOPHER 

A Study in Sentiment 



MARIE CORELLI / 

AUTHOR OF 

“Thelma” “Barrabas” “The Sorrows of Satan” 
“The Life Everlasting ” “Innocent” 

“The Young Diana ” etc . 



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NEW 



YORK 


GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY; 






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COPYRIGHT, 1923, 

By GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 






LOVE,-AND THE PHILOSOPHER. II 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 





X. * 



FOREWORD 


The following story is of the simplest character, 
purposely so designed. It has no “abnormal” or 
“neurotic” episodes; no “problems” and no “psycho- 
o analysis.” Its “sentiment” is of an ordinary, every¬ 
day type, common to quiet English homes where the 
“sensational” press finds no admittance, and where 
a girl may live her life as innocent of evil as a rose; 
—where even the most selfish of cynical “philoso¬ 
phers” may gradually evolve something better than 
Self. There are no “thrills,” no “brain storms,” no 
“doubtful moralities”—no unnatural overstrained 
“emotionalisms,” whatever. The personages who 
figure in the tale are drawn absolutely from life— 
“still life” I might call it—and are fit to make the 
acquaintance of any “Young Person” of either sex. 
I have hopes that the “Philosopher,” though selfish, 
may be liked, when he is known, for his ^selfishness, 
—and that the “Sentimentalist” may waken a sister- 
sympathy among those many charming women, who 
though wishing to be gentle and just to their ad¬ 
mirers, do not always know their own minds in af¬ 
fairs of love. Whether my heroine chose the right 
partner for life is for my readers to determine. I 
myself am not more sure about it than she was! 

M. C. 


v 


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LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 




LOVE,—AND 
THE PHILOSOPHER 


CHAPTER I 

“'V/ r OU women are always so sentimental!” said 
the Philosopher, leaning back in a comfort¬ 
able garden chair and lazily flicking off the ash from 
an excellent cigar;—“You overdo the thing. You 
carry every emotion to an extreme limit. It shows 
a lamentable lack of judgment.” 

She listened to him with the tiniest quiver of a 
smile, but offered no reply. She did not even look 
at the Philosopher. There were many other things 
which (apparently) engaged her attention, so that 
unless you knew her very well, you might have said 
she was not even aware of the Philosopher’s exist¬ 
ence. This would have been a mistake,—but no 
matter! However, there was the garden, to begin 
with. It was a lovely garden, full of sweet-smell¬ 
ing, old-fashioned flowers. There were roses in such 
lavish quantity that they seemed to literally blaze 
upon the old brick walls and rustic pergolas which 
surrounded and hemmed in the numerous beds and 
borders set in among the grass. Then there were 
two white doves strutting on the neatly kept path 

and declaring their loves, doubts or special mislik- 

9 



10 LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 


ings in their own curiously monotonous manner. 
There was also a thrush perched on a spray of emer¬ 
ald green leaves and singing to his own heart’s con¬ 
tent, oblivious of an audience. All these trifles of a 
summer’s day pleased her;—but then, she was easily 
pleased. 

“You magnify trifles into momentous incidents,” 
went on the Philosopher, placidly smoking. “Look 
at the way you behaved about that dead robin yes¬ 
terday ! Found it lying in the garden path,—picked 
it up and actually cried over it! Now think of the 
hundreds of men and women starving to death in 
London! You never cry over them! No! Like all 
women you must see a dead robin before you can 
cry!” 

She turned her eyes towards him. They were soft 
eyes, with a rather pleading look just now in their 
blue depths. 

“The poor bird!” she murmured. “Such an in¬ 
nocent little thing! It was sad to see it lying dead 
in the bright sunshine.” 

“Innocent! Sad! Poor!” exclaimed the Philoso¬ 
pher. “Good heavens! What of the human beings 
who are poor and sad and innocent and all the rest 
of it, and who die uncared for every day 4 ? Besides, 
how do you know a robin is innocent or sad 4 ? I’ve 
watched the rascal, I tell you, many a time! He 
fights with all the other birds as hard as he can,— 
he is spiteful,—he is cruel,—and he positively trades 
on his red breast. Trades on it, I tell you! You 
women again! If he hadn’t a red breast you would 
never be sorry for him. You wouldn’t weep for a 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 11 


sparrow. I tell you, as I’ve often told you before, 
that you women overdo sentiment and make too 
much fuss about nothing.” 

She perceived that his cigar had gone out, and 
handed him a match from a small box on a garden 
table near them. He accepted it condescendingly. 

“If you ever fall in love—” pursued the Philoso¬ 
pher. Here he paused, and striking the match she 
had given him, relighted his cigar and began to puff 
out smoke with evident enjoyment. She stood pa¬ 
tiently watching him. 

“If you ever fall in love—” he went on, . . . 
Now it was very strange that the Philosopher should 
pause again. He was seldom at a loss for words, 
but for the moment his profuse vocabulary appeared 
to have given out. 

“If you ever fall in love—” he murmured. 

Again that tiny quiver of a smile appeared on her 
face. 

“Well! Go on!” she said. 

The Philosopher nerved himself to an effort. 

“If you ever fall in love,” he continued, “never 
try on sentiment with a man. He won’t like it. He 
won’t understand it. No man ever does.” 

The little quivering smile deepened. 

. “I’m sure you are quite right!” she answered, in 
a voice that was almost dove-like in its humility. 

The Philosopher was silent for a moment. He 
seemed nonplussed. There is perhaps nothing that 
so completely bewilders and confuses even a philoso¬ 
pher as an agreeable acquiescence in all his opinions, 
whether such opinions be sagacious or erroneous. 


12 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“Well!” he added, somewhat lamely—“Don’t 
you forget it!” 

She moved a step or two from his side. 

“I should never dream of forgetting it!” she 
said. 

Her back was now turned to him. Furtively, and 
one would almost have said with an air of timidity, 
the Philosopher peeped at her sideways. Decidedly 
her back was not unpleasing. The folds of her skirt 
fell exactly as the Philosopher would have had them 
fall could he have stood in the shoes of Worth or 
Paquin,—her hair was arranged in precisely the way 
he considered becoming. The garden hat, . . . but 
no! . . .no philosopher is capable of describing a 
woman’s garden hat. There followed a silence 
which was embarrassing,—not to her, but to him. 
Presently he said: 

“Are you going?” 

She turned her head, ever so slightly. 

“Do you wish me to go?” 

Another silence, more embarrassing than the pre¬ 
vious one. 

“I like to see you about,” said the Philosopher at 
last. “You give a touch to the landscape which is 
—which is natural and agreeable.” 

She moved slowly away, her back still turned 
towards him, and presently stepped lightly among 
the flower borders, lifting a trailing rose here or set¬ 
ting aside a straying branch there, and looking, in 
her simple white gown, like the presiding goddess of 
the garden, as indeed she was. The Philosopher 
heaved a sigh,—whether of relief or vexation he 



LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 13 


hardly knew. He had a book to read,—a rather dull 
and drily written volume of profound essays, en¬ 
titled “The Natural Evolution and Decay of Na¬ 
tions,” and, opening it at the place he had left off, 
he endeavoured to immerse himself in its contents. 
Nevertheless, now and again his attention wandered. 
His eyes roved away from the printed page and fol¬ 
lowed the slow gliding of the white-robed figure 
through the garden. He liked to watch it,—and yet 
in a curious way was half ashamed of his liking. 
Needless to say the Philosopher was a very well- 
balanced, self-restrained man. He was a profound 
student of logic and prided himself on his sound 
reasoning ability. He was also a good orator, and 
had astonished numerous audiences by his eloquence 
on the general inability of the human being to under¬ 
stand reason. The human being was, in his opin¬ 
ion, a poor creature at best, and sometimes he quite 
forgot that he was a human being himself. The 
feminine human being came into his calculations as 
the merest appendage to the intricate and mysterious 
scheme of existence—an appendage which, though 
apparently necessary, seemed a little unfortunate,— 
except—well!—except when it wore a white gown 
and a fascinating garden hat and moved gracefully 
among flowering plants and was not too much in 
the way. He began to think in a curious desultory 
fashion about incidents and circumstances which had 
nothing whatever to do with “The Natural Evolu¬ 
tion and Decay of Nations.” 

“She’s really quite gentle and amenable,” he said 
to himself—“if it were not for that sentiment of 



14 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 


hers! She has too much of it altogether. If I 
allowed myself to fall in love with her she would 
make my life a burden—a positive burden! If I 
ever did anything that seemed to suggest indifference 
to, or neglect of her—such as reading a book like this, 
for example,—or a newspaper,—her eyes would fill 
with tears and she would say: c Ah! You don’t love 
me any more!’ She would! All women do that sort 
of thing! It’s the most fatal mistake in the world! 
But they all make it!” 

Here his attention was distracted by the swinging 
noise of an opening gate, and turning his looks in 
the direction indicated, he saw a young man walking 
with a breezy air up the garden path to the place 
where the white figure with the pretty hat strolled 
by itself among the flowers. This young man had 
no eyes for the Philosopher;—he was bent on one 
goal, and made straight for it. 

“Hello! How are you*?” he called, in much too 
robust a voice for the Philosopher’s delicate sense 
of hearing. “Charming afternoon, isn’t it 4 ? Can I 
help you to prune the roses*?” 

The white figure paused. The Philosopher saw a 
little hand stretched out in welcome to the owner of 
the robust voice and heard a laugh ripple on the air. 

“It isn’t the pruning season,” she answered. “But 
you can come and help me gather a few for the draw¬ 
ing-room.” 

“Nothing I should like better!”—and the young 
man immediately joined her, thus presenting to the 
Philosopher the picture of two figures walking 
among the flowers instead of one. 




LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 15 


Somehow the prospect was not so agreeable. The 
Philosopher shut out the scene by holding his book 
well up before his eyes and severely scanning the 
printed page which told him about the “Natural 
Evolution and Decay of Nations . 55 Every now and 
again he heard that robustious laugh which almost 
shattered his nerves, accompanied by a little silvery 
ripple of merriment, which gave his heart a rather 
unusual thrill. “The Natural Evolution and De¬ 
cay of Nations” was fast becoming a bore. He 
puffed at his cigar. It had gone out. He shook 
the match-box on the table—there was not a match 
left in it. He felt in his pocket—no matches there. 
Whereupon he leaned back in his chair with a 
heavy sigh and looked forlornly at the dull end 
of his Havana. 

“What a confounded bore!” he murmured. “If 
that ass were not here I’d call her—and she would 
come,—I’m sure she’d come!—and she’d get me a 
match directly.” 

He thought a little, then laid the half-smoked 
cigar down. Sitting bolt upright he watched the 
two figures strolling among the flower-borders. 

“How she can put up with that insufferable idiot 
passes my comprehension!” he ejaculated. “But 
women are all like that! The fool can talk a little 
sentiment—quotes poetry—talks about dewdrops 
and sunsets,—and that always goes down. Heigh- 
ho!” 

Here he fell upon “The Natural Evolution and 
Decay of Nations” with a kind of avidity, and 
perused page after page with the sternest attention. 


16 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“Pm afraid you’ve no matches!” said a sweet 
voice near him. “Shall I get you some?” 

He started. 

“If you would be so kind,” he murmured, with 
elaborate courtesy. 

A light movement and she was gone. Another 
light movement and she was back again with the box 
of matches desired. The Philosopher looked up as 
he took them from her hand. 

“You have a visitor this afternoon?” 

“Only Jack,” she replied. 

“Jack seems a good deal about here,” remarked 
the Philosopher, airily. 

“Yes,” she said, with gentle unconcern. “Quite 
harmless, I assure you!” 

He laughed despite himself. There was some¬ 
thing quaint in the accent of her voice. 

“He’s a sentimental sort of boy,” she went on. 
“He’s very fond of gardening, and he attaches the 
greatest possible importance to trifles. For instance, 
I gave him a rose a week ago and he tells me he has 
pressed it in a book of favourite poems so that he 
may keep it for ever.” 

“Young noodle!” growled the Philosopher. 
“Spoiling the book with messy crushed petals which 
are sure to stain it. I wouldn’t do such a thing for 
the world.” 

“I know you wouldn’t,” she agreed, calmly. 

He glanced at “The Natural Evolution and De¬ 
cay of Nations,” marked the place where he had 
been reading, and shut it up. 

“You know you like all that sort of thing,” he 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 17 

said, settling himself in his chair ready for an argu¬ 
ment. “Has he gone*?” 

“Yes!” 

“Well, he didn’t stay long,” admitted the Philoso¬ 
pher, rather reluctantly. “Did he take another rose 
to damage a book with*?” 

She laughed. 

“I’m afraid he did!” 

“Come now, you’re not afraid he did. You know 
he did! And you know you gave it to him.” 

The Philosopher’s voice was decidedly raspy. She 
raised her eyes to his,—her face was dimpled with 
smiles. 

“Well, if I must be accurate—” she began. 

“Of course you must!” snapped the Philosopher. 
“Accuracy is always desirable, and accuracy is what 
you women always fail in! Briefly,—to be perfectly 
accurate, you gave him a rose. Didn’t you?” 

She nodded with a charmingly assumed air of 
mock penitence. 

“To a noodle like that,” said the Philosopher, 
sternly, “the gift of a rose from you means encour¬ 
agement. You have given him an inch—he will 
take an ell. Of course if you wish to encourage 
him—” 

“Encourage him in what?” she asked, demurely. 

“In—in—his attentions to you,” said the Philoso¬ 
pher. 

She smiled sweetly, but said nothing. 

“I don’t consider it a good match,” went on the 
Philosopher. 

“Oh! Wouldn’t it light?” she asked, innocently. 


18 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“I thought it was a wax one—not one of those things 
that must have its own box/’ 

The Philosopher’s mouth twitched under his 
moustache and his eyes sparkled. But he main¬ 
tained a dignified demeanour. 

“I wasn’t speaking of either a Vesta or of a 
Bryant and May,” he said. “And you know I 
wasn’t.” 

She drew a small rustic bench towards him and 
sat down very nearly at his feet,—then looked up 
from under her garden hat. 

“What are you reading?” she asked. 

The Philosopher wished her eyes would not swim 
in such liquid blue, and that the garden hat was not 
quite so becoming. 

“Nothing that you would care for,” he answered, 
with condescending politeness. “It’s called ‘The 
Natural Evolution and Decay of Nations’.” 

She nodded sagaciously. 

“I know!” she said. “It’s all the same thing and 
it all seems no use. Nations begin and grow and 
progress, and then just like fruit they get over-ripe 
and the wasps begin to eat them and they rot and 
fall off the tree. Oh, yes! It can all be said in 
quite a few lines. There’s really no occasion to 
write a thick book about it; unless the man wants 
to show himself off.” 

The Philosopher gasped and glared. 

“The man! Show himself off! You foolish 
child! The man is a Fellow of Balliol and a most 
profound scholar.” 

“Is he?” And she shrugged her pretty shoulders 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 19 


indifferently. “Well, I suppose he wants the public 
to know it.” 

The Philosopher was for the moment rendered 
speechless. He looked down at her, but her face 
was bent and he could only see the crown of the 
garden hat; there was a most absurd little knot of 
ribbon on that crown, perfectly useless and half lost 
in a twisted mist of pale blue chiffon. 

“I suppose you don’t care much about poetry 4 ?” 
she said, raising her head so suddenly that the light 
of her eyes quite dazzled him. “It would be too 
sentimental for you. But if you did, I could tell 
you some lines that would quite cover the ground.” 

“Could you 4 ?” he murmured. 

“Yes! Shall I say them 4 ?” 

The Philosopher was conscious of an uncomfort¬ 
able nervousness. 

“If you like,” he answered, rather slowly. “But 
poetry is not in my line.” 

“I know it isn’t,” she agreed emphatically. “But 
just listen!” 

And in a soft musical voice she repeated slowly 
and with well-modulated emphasis and intonation: 

“Hence pageant history !—hence gilded cheat! 

Swart planet in the universe of deeds!” 

“Keats!” murmured the Philosopher, dreamily. 
“Honey and water!” 

“Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds 
Along the pebbled shores of memory! 

Many old rotten-timbered boats there be 
Upon thy vaporous bosom magnified 


20 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

To goodly vessels; many a sail of pride, 

And golden-keeled, is left unlaunched and dry! 

But wherefore this*? What care, though owl did fly 
About the great Athenian admiral’s mast 
The Indus with his Macedonian numbers 4 ? 

Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbers 
The glutted Cyclops, what care *?...” 

“Not in the least!” interposed the Philosopher. 
“What do you know about 'glutted Cyclops 5 ?” 

She continued: 

“Juliet leaning 

Amid her window-flowers—sighing—weaning 
Tenderly her fancy from its maiden snow, 

Doth more avail than these: . . . ” 

“Ah! Of course you like that,” interrupted the 
Philosopher. 

She went on, calmly: 

“the silver flow 

Of Hero’s tears, the swoon of Imogen, 

Fair Pastorella in the bandit’s den, 

Are things to brood on with more urgency 
Than the death-day of empires.” 

The sweet voice ceased. The Philosopher’s hand 
inadvertently fell at his side and came in contact 
with a deliciously soft arm. 

“Have you done 1 ?” he enquired, in mild accents. 

“Yes!” was the reply. 

“Well,” he observed, “you spoke your lines very 
prettily,—that’s all I can say. Your quotation is 
from ‘Endymion,’ and I suppose you realise that 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 21 


‘Endymion’ is utterly spoilt by its excess of cloying 
sentimentality. Yet—” 

Absent-mindedly he began to stroke the soft arm 
up and down with a light caress such as he would 
have bestowed on a child. 

“What I should like to explain/’ he said, with an 
argumentative air, “and what you women will never 
understand, is that any exaggeration of feeling is 
always bad form, both in literature and in life. 
You’ve got plenty of intelligence and you ought to 
grapple with and master this fact. Certain things 
are taken for granted and it is not necessary to dwell 
upon them. Outward displays of emotion should 
always be suppressed. The brave man hides his 
wound,—and of course in matters of love the one 
who says least loves most.” 

“I thought,” she interposed, in the most dulcet ac¬ 
cents, “that to be in really good form one should 
never love at all.” 

Her eyes were full of the most melting enquiry. 
The Philosopher began to feel a little confusion in 
his head. But he rallied his forces. 

“Regard and esteem,” he said, sententiously, “are 
safer emotions than what is called love, which is a 
term often used to cover the lowest passions. An 
affection founded on mutual respect is dignified, 
sober and acceptable and generally leads to great 
tranquillity and happiness in marriage.” 

She sprang up laughing. 

“How dull!” she exclaimed. “I’m sure you are 
quite right! You always are quite right; but, oh, 
how dull! Dull, dull, dismally dull!” And throw- 




22 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 


ing herself into one of the most picturesque attitudes 
imaginable, she uttered a soft call, apparently to the 
air, whereupon in swift response one of the white 
doves on the garden path flew up and settled on her 
outstretched hand. 

The Philosopher gazed, as well he might. Such a 
charming curve to the back! Such a fall and flow 
of the white garments!—such a sudden tilt of the 
garden hat, showing the clustering hair underneath 
it, and, oh, dear me! such a very small hand,—as 
white as the dove that had settled upon it. She 
made a perfect picture in which “The Natural Evo¬ 
lution and Decay of Nations’’ had no part. She 
was a living, breathing embodiment of joy, and 
there was no reasoning her away. The Philosopher 
took refuge in a kind of hypocrisy. 

“Do you want any more roses gathered?” he 
asked, with a deep sigh. 

She smiled. 

“Come and choose one for yourself,” she an¬ 
swered. 

Now the Philosopher did not want a rose. He 
was the last man in the world to wear a flower in 
his coat, and as for gathering a rose for himself— 
the idea was perfectly monstrous. However, he left 
his chair quite obediently and followed his fair guide, 
with the dove still perched on her hand, through the 
intertwisting pergolas, wondering vaguely what they 
all meant and where they would lead to. A bright 
idea presently struck the profound recesses of his 
brain, and this was that he would actually gather a 
rose on his own account and offer it to her! She 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 23 


might press it in a book—who could tell? Women 
are always so sentimental! He perceived a beauti¬ 
ful dewy blush-pink bud, and made for it at once, 
recklessly plunging his hand awkwardly through the 
bush to get at its stalk. Suddenly he uttered a pierc¬ 
ing howl: 

“Damnation!" 

This was a rude word. It was one he was rather 
fond of using. A thorn had scratched him merci¬ 
lessly, drawing blood. 

“Look here!" he cried, loudly. “Here’s a pretty 
business. My hand’s disfigured for life!’’ 

She ran to his side, her face full of the prettiest 
sympathy. 

“Oh! You poor thing!" she murmured. “But 
it’s only a scratch!’’ 

“Only a scratch! Come, I like that! The most 
awful cases of blood-poisoning have been set up by 
a scratch. I may be dead in three days! Don’t you 
know that? Look at the blood! Why, it’s hor¬ 
rible !" 

She drew out the daintiest handkerchief, and dip¬ 
ping it in a cool spring of water that bubbled in a 
nook of the old rose-covered wall, bathed the 
wounded hand gently, though her face was dimpled 
all over with smiles. 

“ 'Outward displays of emotion should always be 
suppressed,’ ’’ she said, in a soft small voice that 
shook with restrained laughter. “ 'The brave man 
hides his wound’—doesn’t he?" Here she peeped up 
at him in the most fascinating manner. “ 'Certain 
things,’—like scratches—'are taken for granted and 



24 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

it is not necessary to dwell on them!’ Isn’t that 
right? There!” And she tied the handkerchief 
deftly round the “disfigured” hand. “It will be all 
right in a very little while.” 

“Not at all!” said the Philosopher, drearily, with 
almost a wail. “It won’t be all right—it will be 
all wrong! You call it a scratch. You women never 
pay attention to anything that’s really serious, 
though you make no end of a fuss over trifles. This 
is a positive scar! and it’s most painful—most pain¬ 
ful, I tell you! Why, it’s quite hot and throbbing!” 

She smiled up into his eyes. 

“Is it? I’m so sorry! But,—do think of Na¬ 
poleon’s march to Moscow!” 

The Philosopher’s brow clouded. 

“What’s that to do with it?” he demanded, 
sharply. 

“Well!—the poor soldiers were starved and 
frozen to death,” she said, “and you are only 
scratched by a rose thorn. Of course the march to 
Moscow happened a long time ago—but that doesn’t 
matter!—you ought to feel it just as much—so much 
that your scratch should seem nothing but purest joy 
if you had the right sort of sentiment.” 

A reluctant smile overspread his face and pres¬ 
ently shone so broadly that in spite of his being a 
Philosopher he became almost good-looking. 

“Don’t play!” he urged. “I’m in earnest—I am 
really!” 

“About what?” she asked, mirthfully. 

“About the scratch—and—perhaps—about you,” 
he said, suddenly, moved by an impulse he could not 





LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 25 


understand. “I don’t know whether you come be¬ 
fore the scratch or after. You see I wanted to get 
you a rose—” 

“Most kind of you,” she murmured, pretending 
not to be aware that his arm had somehow got round 
her waist. “Why?” 

“I don’t know why,” he said. “Oh, that scratch! 
Really, joking apart, it’s very painful!” 

She unbound the handkerchief and looked at the 
damage critically. Suddenly, and with a fleeting 
blush, she stooped and kissed it. 

“There!” she said. “That’s what we women do 
to—babies! Kiss the place and make it well! All 
sentiment! Better now?” 

“Positively I think it is!” admitted the Philoso¬ 
pher, his eyes beginning to shine in quite a human 
and unphilosophical manner. “But what a goose 
you are! The absurdity—” 

“Yes!” she interrupted quickly. “I quite agree 
with you! The absurdity of a clever man,—a 
learned man,—a distinguished man,—giving way to 
his emotions on account of a scratch! Well! But 
that’s the way you men always go on! You neglect 
the most serious things of life and you fret and fidget 
yourselves over the merest trifles! You are the 
slaves of your feelings! Even swearing! Oh! 
Now if it had been Jack—” 

“Hang Jack!” said the Philosopher. “You’re 
always trotting him out! You’d better marry 
him!” 

“Would you like me to?” she asked, demurely. 

His arm was still round her waist. For a Philoso- 





26 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 


pher he felt fairly comfortable. He peered under 
the garden hat—and found an expression of face 
that pleased him. Proud of his discovery he en¬ 
joyed it in silence for a while. 

“Would I like you to marry Jack 4 ?” he repeated. 
44 Well! Let me consider—you know these sort of 
questions take a long time to answer! 'Would I like 
you to marry Jack*?’ No!—I don’t think so—not 
just yet!” 



CHAPTER II 


thing I will say of you,” remarked the 
Philosopher, condescendingly, “and that is— 
you are not a Nagger!” 

He and she were walking together across a 
meadow full of buttercups and daisies, and they had 
just been on the point of what the middle-classes 
politely call “words.” He was not without temper 
—she was not without spirit—hence the little breeze 
that had for the moment ruffled the calm of their 
platonic friendship. Her “sentimentalism,” how¬ 
ever, had saved the situation. When she perceived 
that his irritability was fast developing into down¬ 
right bearishness, she had suddenly raised her eyes 
and shown them full of tears. 

“Don’t be cross,” she had murmured, cooingly— 
“it’s so ugly!” 

Whereat the Philosopher’s set mouth had relaxed 
into a rather grieved smile, and he had casually 
observed: 

“You seem to have caught a cold. Your eyes are 
red!” 

But to this she had made no answer,—and merely 
swallowing an uncomfortable lump in her throat 
had walked on quietly, light-footed and serene. And 
it was this swiftly attained composure of hers that 
had moved him to the implied compliment he had 

just uttered: “You are not a Nagger!” 

27 


28 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 


She did not speak—so he went on. 

“Of all detestable things in this world a Nagger 
is the worst! Once—years ago—I knew one.” 

She turned her head towards him. 

“Man or woman?” she asked. 

“Woman, of course! Foolish child! Did you 
ever hear of a male nagger? The type is essentially 
feminine!” 

She smiled, but was silent. 

“This woman,” he continued, “was by way of 
being a domestic martyr. A sort of self-created 
aureole of glory shone over her head—and one heard 
the rustle of heavenly palm branches where’er she 
walked. Tray don’t mind me!’ she would observe, 
with mournful sweetness, at times when she was 
most confoundedly in the way— Tm so accustomed 
to take a second, even a third place, that it really 
doesn’t matter!’ And if she and her belongings had 
a little difference”—here he hesitated—“such as you 
and I have been having—she would shed torrents of 
tears. All my life,’ she would wail, dismally, T’ve 
done more than my duty to you! Money could not 
buy such devotion as mine! And this is my reward!’ 
And on she would go like a flowing stream, the vic¬ 
tim to circumstances—the ‘buffer’ of cruel mis¬ 
chance. Men fled from her as from the eye of 
Medusa, though she was not bad-looking, and had 
managed to secure a husband.” 

“What was her husband like?” 

“Oh, he was quite a decent sort of chap—a hard¬ 
working, easy-going, scientific man. She had her 




LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 29 

waves of sentiment, too,—they came rolling over 
her in the most unexpected places. For example, 
one morning, having nagged her husband till he put 
both hands to his head in an effort to keep his 
trembling scalp in its place, she suddenly altered 
her tone and asked him if she should bring him the 
‘cure-alb for his corns! There now!—I thought 
you would laugh!” 

She certainly did laugh; a pretty little laugh full 
of subdued merriment. 

“It’s much better to laugh than to cry,” said the 
Philosopher, sententiously. “Men don’t understand 
women’s tears. They’re so—so wet and uncom¬ 
fortable! This Nagger I’m telling you of was 
always shedding them—a regular water-barrel with 
the tap forever turned on.” 

“How unfeeling you are!” she said, reproachfully. 
“Poor woman!” 

“Poor woman! Poor man, you mean! Think of 
her husband!—working hard all day and a great part 
of the night as well—and getting no sympathy in his 
aims, no touch of interest in his work—nothing but 
stories of domestic martyrdom nobly endured for 
duty’s sake, and copious weeping! Now if you were 
married, you wouldn’t behave like that, would 
you?” 

“No, I shouldn’t!” she replied. “But we women 
are not all alike, though you men generally think 
so!” 

“Confound it all!” and the Philosopher, suddenly 
stopped short in his walk, trying to rekindle his pipe. 
A soft wind played about the vesta he had struck 






30 LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 


and puffed it out as though in fun. “Can’t get the 
cursed thing to light anyhow!” 

She came close up to him, and held a pair of little 
hands curved like a couple of shells round the bowl 
of his briar, while he lit a fresh vesta and made an¬ 
other essay,—this time successfully. 

“Thanks!” he said, curtly. “You really can be 
very useful when you like!” 

She laughed and moved away, stepping quickly 
over the grass as though bent on making distance 
between herself and him. 

“Where are you going?” called the Philosopher, 
irritably. “Don’t skip about like that! Can’t you 
be quiet for five minutes?” 

She came back slowly and stood still, with a 
quaint air of mock humility. 

“You’re playing!” said the Philosopher, severely. 
“And I’m not always in a playing mood.” 

“No?” 

The question slid through a little round O of a 
mouth that suggested kisses. The Philosopher 
quickly averted his eyes. 

“No!” he answered, with increased sternness. 
“I’m in a thinking mood to-day.” 

He walked on, and she walked with him; her soft 
linen gown made a little “frou-frou” sound among 
the grasses that was pleasant and companionable. 
Her footsteps were too light to be heard at all, and 
presently the Philosopher, through two whiffs of his 
pipe, caught himself smiling. 

“What a little goose it is!” he half murmured. 
“Dear little sentimental goose!” 



LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 31 


Here he coughed loudly—quite an ugly cough. 

“Are you tired f ’ he demanded. 

“Not at all!” 

“You women generally get tired after half an 
hour’s walking,” he said. “Would you like to sit on 
that stile and look at the scenery^” 

“No, thanks! I would rather go on.” 

The Philosopher’s face fell. The stile he had 
alluded to was quite a tempting thing. It was sit¬ 
uated under an ancient tree whose broad branches 
spread out sheltering foliage on all sides, and it 
would have been very agreeable to him to sit there 
and rest for a few minutes, even with a “sentimental 
goose” for his companion. But this goose would 
rather go on. And she did go on;—she was over 
the stile, too, before he could so much as assist her, 
and he only caught a glimpse of a frilled flounce 
and the point of a buckled shoe. This was really 
too bad! 

“You’re in such a hurry this morning,” he 
grumbled. “And we’ve come out for a sociable 
walk.” 

“Oh, no, we haven’t!” she said. “Much more 
than that! You want to think, you know!” 

“Well, a man must think sometimes,” he ob¬ 
served. 

“Indeed he must!” she agreed, emphatically. 
“Not only sometimes, but always! Then he will 
know what he is doing!” 

“Then he will know what he is doing!” echoed 
the Philosopher, grimly. “That’s deep,—very deep! 
Quite beyond me! Are there ever any occasions,— 


32 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

setting drink aside,—when he doesn't know what he 
is doing?” 

She gave him a fleeting glance. 

“Oh, yes! Many!” 

“Indeed! You are developing a very singular 
perspicuity! Could you name one of those oc¬ 
casions?” 

She laughed. 

“Well! Let us say when he’s in love!” 

“In love!” The Philosopher almost snorted con¬ 
tempt. “In love! You women think of nothing 
but love! Do you know—have you ever realised— 
that being ‘in love’ as you call it, is the least and 
most unimportant part of a man’s career?” 

She looked up at him. 

“Is it?” 

The Philosopher rather winced as she put the ques¬ 
tion. He was conscious of a little quicker beating 
of the heart (which, of course, might be attributed 
to indigestion)—and he studied the aspect of the sky 
critically, in order to avoid her eyes. 

“Well! Perhaps I need not go so far as that,” 
he remarked, mildly. 

“No!” And her voice was very sweet and thrill¬ 
ing. “I don’t think you should—if you are really 
a wise man—go so far as that!” 

He drew his pipe slowly from his mouth—it was 
out again. He looked at it forlornly, and put it in 
his pocket. He realised that they had mutually 
crossed swords, and that she held him at the point 
of her steel. But he rose to the occasion and slipped 
his arm coaxingly through hers. 





LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 33 


“Let us talk about the weather!” he said, cheer¬ 
fully. “It’s a beautiful day!” 

“Lovely!” she answered. 

“And you are not a Nagger 4 ?” 

“I hope not!” 

“You will not tell me you are a martyr to the 
cause of—” 

4 'Philosophy 4 ?” she suggested. 

He laughed good-humouredly. 

“If you like! You will not say you have toiled 
years and years ungrudgingly to make everybody 
happy, despite your own utter misery*? That you 
are a heroine,—an angel and what not 4 ? You will 
not cry and say nobody cares for you—” 

“No! I won’t say that!” she interrupted, with a 
mischievous smile. 

“You won’t?” 

“No! Because it wouldn’t be true!” 

“It wouldn’t be true,—it wouldn’t—” 

“No! Lots of people care for me—people you 
don’t even know! There’s Jack—but you know 
him!” 

“Always cropping up!” murmured the Philoso¬ 
pher. 

“Then there’s Willie, and Claude, and Fred— 
and—” 

“No women in the list? Are they all men?” 

“Well, I like men best,” she confessed. 

The Philosopher emitted a curious sound between 
a grunt and a growl. 

“Of course you do! Trust you! 4 ’Twas John 
and Dick and Joe and Jack and Humphrey with 


34 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

his flail!’ And I suppose you’re ‘Kitty, the charm¬ 
ing girl, to carry the milking pail’ 4 ?” 

•She gave his arm a delighted little squeeze. 

“Fancy you knowing that dear old song!” she 
exclaimed. “Oh! And you such a learned man! I 
should have thought it so much beneath you!” 

He stroked down his moustache to hide a smile. 

“Dear child!” he said, with mock-parental grav¬ 
ity. “I trust I am not yet out of all sympathy with 
the colt-like gambols of the young and foolish! I 
may be bordering on the sere and yellow leaf, but 
I still look upon the tender sprouting green of un¬ 
formed minds with indulgence and compassion!” 

She tried to pull her arm away, but he held it 
firmly. 

“Now, now!” he remonstrated. “Don’t hurt 
yourself. Whatever my faults and failings are, my 
muscular strength is unquestionably superior to 
yours!” 

She looked at him appealingly. 

“Oh, how can you talk as you do!” she said. 
“Such nonsense!” 

“I suit myself to your temperament!” he said, 
with a grand air. “You are full of infantile senti¬ 
ment,—I try to meet it half way.” 

“How good of you!” she said, and this time she 
succeeded in withdrawing her arm from his hold. 
“Is the effort exhausting?” 

“Very!” And the moustache drooped over a 
whimsical but rather attractive smile. 

She stood for a moment with her eyes downcast. 

“Then why do you do it?” she asked. 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 35 


“Do what?” 

“Try to meet me half way?” 

“I thought it might make it easier for you,” he 
said. “Don’t you see? Easier for you to—” 

“Rise to your height!” she suggested. 

“Or sink to my level,” he answered, meekly— 
“whichever you prefer!” 

“I would rather rise to your height,” she said. 
“A man is always superior to a woman.” 

“Oh, specious flattery!” exclaimed the Philoso¬ 
pher. “Are you not a Suffragette?” 

Her eyes flashed. 

“I? A Suffragette? How dare you suggest such 
a thing!” 

The Philosopher linked his arm in hers again with¬ 
out being repulsed. 

“Thank Heaven for all its mercies!” he ejacu¬ 
lated, piously. “You are neither a Suffragette nor 
a Nagger—you are—what are you?” 

“Whatever you choose to call me,” she answered, 
laughingly. 

“These things take time,” he said. “I will con¬ 
sider. You are—you are—let me see—a woman! 
That is unfortunate.” 

“You think so!” And her eyes were full of danc¬ 
ing merriment. 

“Yes—I think so. Unfortunate for yourself, I 
mean. Not unfortunate for me .” 

“Oh! Not unfortunate for you?” 

“Not exactly. Sometimes I feel it might perhaps 
have been better had you been a man—there are 
occasions—” 


36 LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 


He paused. 

“My pipe is not quite smoked out,” he said, 
pathetically. “Would you put your hand in my 
pocket—the one nearest to you—I don’t want to 
move my arm—and give it to me 4 ?” 

She obeyed. 

He sighed. 

“I must move my arm after all!” he said, drear¬ 
ily. “What a bore! You don’t mind 4 ?” 

“Mind? Certainly not!” 

She stood apart from him while he went through 
the usual business of rekindling his tobacco. 

“A pipe,” he murmured, “is such a convenient 
thing! It fills in awkward lapses of conversation— 
when—when one feels one can get no further.” 

She smiled demurely, and walked slowly on. 

“You see,” he said, moving easily beside her, “if 
you were a man it would be different.” 

“It would certainly!” she agreed. 

“A man would not want any attention,” he said. 

“Nor do I!” she said. “You give it without be¬ 
ing asked for it.” 

“Do I?” He appeared mildly surprised. “Now 
that’s curious,—v-e-r-y curious!” 

He seemed quite entranced in the contemplation 
of this novel phase of his own conduct. He glanced 
at her sideways when she was not looking at him. 

“Delicious!” he murmured. 

She turned her head quickly. 

“What did you say?” she asked. 

“I? Nothing!” He puffed at his pipe enjoy- 
ingly, then he went on after a pause—“What I was 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 37 


going to say is, that if you were a man you wouldn’t 
mind my looking at the scenery instead of at you!” 

She laughed outright. 

“Oh, my good sir! Do I mind‘d” 

“You must mind!” he said, argumentatively. 
“Being a woman you are compelled to mind! No 
woman can forgive a man for looking at trees and 
skies instead of looking at her. She feels she should 
be the centre of his thoughts. She is very often.” 

“Is she 4 ?” 

“There!” And the Philosopher sighed. “I knew 
you would ask that question! Yes,—if you will 
have it, she is. But a centre implies a surrounding 
—and if a woman does happen to be the centre of a 
man’s thoughts she should realise that she is only the 
pin’s point round which the mightier forces of life 
revolve. Round which the mightier forces of life 
revolve!” The Philosopher took the pipe out of his 
mouth in order to let this sentence roll over his 
tongue like a luscious jujube or chocolate cream. 
“Do you understand 4 ?” 

“Quite!” she replied. 

He gave her an oblique glance in which there was 
something of fun mingled with fire. 

“Well, you are a very good girl!” he said, sud¬ 
denly. “You may do what you like now!” And 
he slipped his arm through hers again—“I have had 
a slight attack of gout. I need a little support.” 

She turned her face towards his, dimpling with 
smiles. 

“Are you sure it’s gout 4 ?” she asked. 

“Quite sure!” he answered, gravely. “It was the 


38 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

death of my father, and my grandfather, and my 
great-grandfather. It will be the death of me.” 

Her brows clouded. Then catching the humorous 
gleam in his eyes, she laughed. 

“I believe you’re joking!” she said. “You want 
to make me anxious.” 

“Would you be anxious?” he asked. “Not 
really?” 

She was silent. 

“If I had the gout,” he resumed; “if I were laid 
up with a burning toe, would you be sorry?” 

“Of course I should!” she answered, promptly. 
“I’m always sorry for a man who is ill: he gets so 
easily frightened and bears it so badly.” 

“That all?” he exclaimed. “You would only feel 
sorry if I was frightened! Not because I suffered? 
Well! You women beat everything!” 

“Your fright would be worse than your suffering 
in any case!” she said, firmly. “I know it would! 
If you were laid up with a burning big toe, as you 
say, you would at once imagine that the trouble in 
the toe was bound to fly to the head—then you 
would turn up some dreadful medical book which 
would coldly inform you that gout in the head is 
always fatal—then you would begin to tremble in¬ 
wardly,—you would pass sleepless nights thinking 
it out till you pictured your last end in the blackest 
colours—you would almost see the undertaker arriv¬ 
ing—you would, as it were, witness your own pro¬ 
cession to the grave—and—and—and perhaps you 
might feel the grief of all your friends—” 

Here she turned her head, and the Philosopher 




LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 39 


heard a curious little tremolo sound—he would have 
almost sworn it was a suppressed sob if he had not 
made up his mind that it was nothing but laughter. 
Stimulated by sudden interest he put his hand under 
her chin and moved her head gently round till the 
blue eyes looked straight into his own. A very 
slight smile lifted the corners of his lips. 

“You have really caught a bad cold!” he said, 
softly. “Your eyes are quite wet!” 

She lowered them promptly till he could only see 
glistening lashes on flushed cheeks. 

“Why,” he asked, almost coaxingly, “should you 
think me such an absurd idiot as to be capable of 
imagining all those things about myself 4 ?” 

She gave him a fleeting glance in which a smile 
danced like a sunbeam. 

“Why? Because—because you are a Philoso¬ 
pher!” she answered. “Philosophy is all very well 
in theory—but in practice—oh, the mockery of it!” 

He still kept his hand under her chin. 

“'Adversity’s sweet milk, Philosophy!’” he 
quoted, musingly. “That’s Shakespeare! Can you 
give me the lines which follow?” 

She made no answer. He smiled again. 

“Perhaps you haven’t a very good memory,” he 
said, patiently. “Now listen: 

‘Hang up Philosophy! 

Unless Philosophy can make a Juliet!’ etc., etc. 

That’s the kind of thing you women like! The 
learning of the ages, the equipoise of the mind, the 




40 LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

balance and calm reasoning powers of the brain, 
these all go for nothing—” 

“In an attack of the gout?” she suggested. 

He laughed and loosed his hold of her little white 
chin. 

“Dry your eyes!” he said, masterfully. “I’m not 
dead yet! And in our instructive walk of to-day I 
have discovered one thing,—that you would be 
rather sorry if I were! That's curious! And not 
altogether unpleasing! Now I wonder why—” 

“And I wonder,” she interrupted, quickly, 
“whether you would be sorry if—” 

“Now, now! Take care!” he exclaimed. “There 
are certain subjects I will not have mentioned—sub¬ 
jects which you women love to harp upon! I know 
exactly what you are going to say. Would I be 
sorry if you were resolved into your original ex¬ 
quisite atoms of matter? Yes—I should be sorry, 
because there would be a blank—” Here he sud¬ 
denly stopped in his walk and looked up at the fair 
sky with its fleecy clouds lazily sailing along the 
blue. “There would be a decided blank,” he re¬ 
peated slowly, “where there is just now a very 
great centre of interest—a subject for study and—er 
—contemplation—and—er—considerable entertain¬ 
ment!” 

Their glances met, but flashed away from each 
other instantly,—and they continued their walk 
through the fields, leaving the buttercups and dai¬ 
sies in a glistening trail of gold and silver behind 
them as they passed. 



CHAPTER III 


CANNOT understand,” said Jack, irritably; 
“no, I cannot for my life understand what you 
see in him!” 

She laughed a little. 

“You dear, good Jack! Nor can I!” 

They were sitting on a smooth thyme-scented bank 
close to the river—a lovely river meandering slowly 
under pale green tresses of willow, and gurgling 
softly among reeds and water-lilies,—and it was a 
perfect summer’s afternoon. She,—always the senti¬ 
mentalist,—had been for some minutes lost in a 
reverie—a kind of waking dream of delight in all the 
exquisite things of nature about her—the ripple of 
the water, the swirl of the swaying leaves above her 
head, and the delicious blue of the sky. She was 
herself an exquisite thing, but she did not realise it. 
That was left to Jack. 

“Well, if you can’t,” he pursued, “why on earth 
do you humour him in all his whims and fads—” 

“He’s a very learned man!” she interrupted, de¬ 
murely. “Most frightfully learned! He knows 
everything!—or he thinks he knows!” 

“Oh! That’s another story!” said Jack. “He 
thinks he knows! I might 'think’ I know!—but I 
shouldn’t know for all that! I hate a human en¬ 
cyclopaedia!” 


42 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“Then, he’s a Philosopher,” she went on, her smile 
dimpling the corners of her mouth in the most en¬ 
chanting way. “He is never put out—never excited 
—takes everything as it comes quite calmly—” 

“Except when it happens to hurt himself ,” ex¬ 
claimed Jack. “Then he can roar like the Biblical 
bulls of Bashan! I’ve heard him! Oh, yes, I grant 
you he’s never put out by other folks’ worries—he 
wouldn’t stir a finger to help any one out of a fix— 
not even youl Can’t you see how utterly selfish the 
man is?” 

She considered,—resting her chin in the hollow of 
her little white hand. She looked very pretty in 
that attitude, and Jack was glad he had her company 
all to himself. 

“Yes,” she said, at last, “I suppose—I’m afraid 
he is! But, you see, Jack, that’s because he’s such a 
philosopher! They are mostly all like that. Think 
of Diogenes in his tub!” 

Jack laughed aloud. 

“You dear, sweet, little girl!” he said, recklessly 
and with fervour. “You say such quaint, funny 
things! Diogenes was an old horror, of course!— 
and really, if you would only see him as he is, so 
is your—” 

She held up a warning finger. 

“Now, Jack! He’s not as bad as Diogenes! No! 
You can’t say that! It’s true that he’s often rude 
—and very indifferent to the happiness of others— 
and rough—and unkind—” 

“To you /” cried Jack in sudden excitement. 

She hesitated. 



LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 43 


“Well!—perhaps—sometimes! But I don’t 

mind!” 

“I do /” declared Jack, with uncommon emphasis. 
“Let me catch him at it! Let me catch him, I say! 
—he’s years older than I am,—but I’ll—I’ll knock 
him down!” 

She peeped at him from under the brim of her hat. 

“You are a dear boy!” she said, patronisingly. 
“But you mustn’t think of such a thing!” 

“Why not?” 

“Well—why not?” She still smiled. “First, be¬ 
cause he’s old. Yes—quite old, really. I dare say 
he’ll never see fifty again—” 

“Too old to make love to you ,” said Jack, loftily. 
“That’s certain!” 

“He doesn't make love to me,” she replied. “Oh, 
dear!—you won’t understand! He doesn’t make 
love at all!” 

“Then what does he do?” demanded Jack. “I 
should jolly well like to know!” 

“What does he do?” she repeated, musingly. 
Then she suddenly laughed joyously: “Oh, Jack!— 
I don’t believe I know! He reads the papers and 
smokes—and writes a little—then he wants to go for 
a walk and asks me to go with him—and we talk— 
and—and that’s all!” 

“That’s all!” and Jack looked whole volumes of 
incredulity. “And just to read the papers and smoke 
and take walks with you he comes down here miles 
away from London to stay with you and your father 
whole weeks together! A regular sponge 1 call him! 
Yes!—a sponge!” 


44 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“Dad likes him,” she said, briefly. 

“I daresay! Your Dad likes any one who’ll talk 
history and politics to him by the hour. But you !— 
you don’t want history and politics!” 

“Don’t I?”—and her eyes sparkled prettily. 
“Then I’m like the poet Keats— 

‘Hence, pageant History! hence, gilded cheat; 

Swart planet in the universe of deeds!’ ” 

“Ah, that’s poetry,” said Jack. “I don’t care very 
much about it!” 

“Nor does he!” she replied. “I quoted those lines 
to him the other day and he said Keats was honey 
and water.” 

“Never mind what ‘he’ said,” and Jack’s voice 
took on a raspy tone. “I daresay you’ll think me 
an impertinent sort of chap but—but you know I’m 
very fond of you—” 

She stretched out a little white hand towards him, 
and he took it tenderly in his own large strong 
palm. 

“Yes, I do know!” she said, sweetly. “And— 
and it’s kind of you—” 

“Kind!” echoed Jack. “Kind! There’s nothing 
kind about it! Nobody could help being fond of 
you—but I—I’m just a rough chap—and I’ve no set¬ 
tled position yet and no money—and it wouldn’t be 
fair to ask you to marry me”—here his clasp tight¬ 
ened involuntarily on the soft fingers he held—“but 
I want you to, all the same!” 

She laughed. 



LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 45 


“Do you? Really?” she queried, with a bewitch¬ 
ing uplift of her pretty eyebrows. “Oh, Jack! 
Marriage is such a dreadful business! Just think 
of the married people we know! Take the Sim¬ 
monses—” 

Jack whistled,—a dismal, dubious whistle. 

“What of them?” he said. “You could never be 
like Mrs. Simmons—and I’m sure I shall never be 
like Mr. !” 

“And the Rlakes, and the Foxes, and the Mee- 
dons,” she went on, enumerating the different names 
on her little white fingers. “They’re all married 
people, and they just bore one another to death! 
Now you and I—we’re not married—we’re not even 
engaged—we’re just the best friends in the world, 
and we don't bore each other to death!” 

“Nor likely to,” said Jack. “But I tell you who 
would bore you to death if you married him!—your 
old Philosopher!” 

She nodded. 

“Yes, I’m sure he would! He bores me often 
now! But—Jack—that’s just the fun of it! He 
thinks himself the wisest, wittiest, most wonderful 
man alive,—and he wants me to think it too. And 
then there’s another funny thing—oh, such a funny 
thing!” 

“Well, what is it?” Jack demanded, rather 
gruffly. 

“Don’t be snappy, Jack dear! The funny thing 
is that he feels he’s falling a little bit in love with 
me!—just a little bit!—and he doesn’t want to! 
That’s what amuses me!” 



46 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“Oh!” Jack looked slightly puzzled. “And how 
long is the game to last*?” 

Her eyes sparkled mischievously. 

“I don’t know! It depends! The 'game’ as you 
call it is more fun than getting married would be!” 

Jack pulled a serious face. 

“Look here!” he said. “You mustn’t play too 
much at that sort of thing! You’ll be getting 'en¬ 
tangled’ with that selfish old brute, and he’ll wriggle 
out of everything that could compromise himself. 
He won’t bother about you. You see I’m an Ameri- 
can-” 

“Good for you!” she interpolated, smiling. 

“Yes, I’m proud of it. But, being one, I shouldn’t 
allow any woman to do menial things for me. Your 
Philosopher does allow it. I’ve seen you run from 
one end of the garden to another to fetch a pipe 
which the lazy beggar has left lying about some¬ 
where,—or to get him a chair—or find his hat and 
walking-stick—” 

“He’s old,” she said. 

“Old be hanged! He’s not decrepit. Does he 
ever do anything for you? Fetch you a chair? Help 
you to find anything? Try to give you any pleasure 
apart from his own dull company? Now, does he?” 

She made a little pink bud of her mouth as she 
replied, meekly— 

“I’m afraid he doesn’t! >You see—you see he’s 
so absorbed in thought!” 

“I’d absorb him if I had the chance!” said Jack. 
“Have you ever read George Eliot’s 'Middle- 
march’ ?” 



LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 47 

“Some of it,” she answered. “I couldn’t get 
through it all.” 

“Nor could I,” he confessed. “But I remember 
old Casaubon. Dorothea married him because she 
thought he would be such a clever husband to have 
—and so he was! Too clever by half! Something 
like your Philosopher.” 

“Not quite!” she demurred. “Casaubon had no 
sense of humour. My Philosopher has quite a 
humorous turn sometimes.” 

“At other folks’ expense,” said Jack. “Oh, yes— 
I daresay! I’ve caught him sneering at me now and 
then!” 

She laughed. 

“That’s only because he’s jealous!” 

“Jealous?” 

“Yes. Jealous of you/” 

Jack drew himself up and patted his own broad 
chest with a smile of self-satisfaction. 

“ That's good news anyhow!” he said. “I’m glad 
I can irritate the old rascal—” 

“Jack!” 

“Mustn’t I call him an old rascal? All right, I 
won’t! But he is, you know! There are lots of his 
sort in London and in University towns. There are, 
really—only you won’t believe it—you’re a lovely 
lady of rose-gardens and country associations, and 
you don’t understand what these 'philosophers’ are 
who moralise on life without having the pluck to 
live it!” 

Her blue eyes lifted towards him with a look of 
surprise and questioning. 



48 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“Why, Jack, you talk quite nobly!” she ex¬ 
claimed, and laughed. “Like a sort of hero in a 
book! But even a Philosopher who’ll never see fifty 
again must have Jived’ his life somehow?” 

“On other people, no doubt,” said Jack. “The 
tedious old thing that comes down here so often and 
persuades you to make such a fuss about him and his 
learning has very little earning power in him I’ll 
swear! Besides—I could tell you a thing or two— 
only you won’t listen.” 

“Yes, I will!” she answered, quickly. “Tell me!” 

“Well, you ask him one day if he hadn’t a good 
old aunt, who, when he was a boy spoiled him to 
death, gave him all he wanted, and left him all her 
fortune,—a pretty decent one too. He led her an 
awful life I’ve heard—shook her in bed when she 
was dying like Queen Elizabeth shaking the woman 
who failed to give her Essex’s ring—and since he 
got the money has grown so mean that he can 
scarcely bear to part with sixpence. That’s why he 
lives on his friends and lets them pay for him.” 

She looked vaguely amused. 

“Jack, I think this is a yarn!” she said. “You 
are too brilliant, dear boy! You don’t know all 
this for a fact?” 

“I don’t know it,” he answered. “But I’ve heard 
it, and I’m sure it’s true. Why, you can prove it 
for yourself! When you went with him the other 
day to the Cinema did he pay for your seat?” 

She laughed. 

“No, he didn’t! I paid for him and myself as 
well! But that was nothing!” 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 49 


“Nothing?” Jack gave a short grunt of disgust. 
“No, it was nothing in the way of expenditure but 
it was something in the way of character! How he 
could let you pay! How you could pay for him!” 

Her pretty dimples came into play again. 

“Oh, well! He was very funny about it. He said 
he felt like a little boy being taken out by his gov¬ 
erness for a treat. He really has a sense of hu¬ 
mour !” 

“I’m sure he has!” spluttered Jack. “By Jove! 
I should say he found it 'humorous’ in the highest 
degree to have a woman pay for him! Suit him 
down to the ground!” 

She stretched her rounded white arms above her 
head and gave a tiny yawn. 

“Dear Jack, you are really exhausting!” .she said. 
“Let’s talk of something else. Look at that dear 
little moor-hen!” 

He followed her .gaze and watched the dainty 
little bird breasting its way across the shining river, 
then said, moodily: 

“I suppose he’s really a fixture just now?” 

“The Philosopher? Oh, I hope not! He’s just 
staying with Dad. They’re doing a book together.” 

“What sort of a book?” 

“The sort of book that no one ever, ever reads,” 
she replied. “A work of such genius that it will 
never, never sell! The title is—let me see!—it’s so 
long and learned,—quite difficult to remember.” 

“Then don’t bother to think about it,” said Jack. 

“Oh, but I’d like to tell you!” She considered. 
“Yes!” she went on. “It’s this—The Deterioration 


50 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

of Language Invariably Perceived as a Precursor to 
the Decadence of Civilisation . 5 55 

“Oh, Great Scott ! 55 and Jack fell back on the 
grassy bank as though suddenly knocked flat. 

She laughed, merrily. 

“It is heavy, isn’t it *? 55 she said. “It’s all about 
things that people don’t really care for,—for in¬ 
stance, how language gets spoilt by slang and un¬ 
grammatical expressions when people lose the sense 
of rectitude and honour — 55 

“Yes!” nodded Jack. “When they get to the low 
level of allowing women to pay for their amuse¬ 
ments !” 

She made a merry little grimace. 

“There, Jack! You always turn the conversation 
back on personalities! Dear boy, it’s bad form! 
You should never be personal ! 55 

He smiled. There was something so appealing in 
the sweet eyes uplifted to his, that the expression 
they conveyed gave him a sense of masterfulness, 
and he felt he must be very tolerant with this charm¬ 
ing bit of wayward feminine feeling. 

“Dear little lady,” he said, with quite a patronis¬ 
ing air, “I won’t be anything you don’t want me 
to be! Only just try and think about commonplace 
facts now and then,—and don’t take your pretty 
ideals for realities. You have put a glamour on 
your old Philosopher—you think he’s so clever that 
he can’t afford to be anything else. But I tell you 
cleverness, isn’t everything and most learned men 
are bores! Selfish bores, too—cynics and—what- 


i 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 51 


d’ye-call-’em—iconoclasts. There’s a word for you! 
—such a mouthful!—it means—” 

“Breakers of idols,” she said, softly and mus¬ 
ingly. “Destroyers of hope and faith!—cruel 
mockers of noble effort—” 

“That’s it!” and Jack got up from the grass, and 
stretched his supple, elegant figure of which he might 
have been proud,—but he wasn’t. “And you’ll find 
your Philosopher comes up to the scratch in all those 
particulars when you put him through his paces. 
‘The Deterioration of Language Invariably Per¬ 
ceived’ is nothing to the Deterioration of a Man who 
thinks himself superior to all other men.” 

She rose from her bank of moss and thyme and 
stood for a minute, looking at the river. 

“How lovely it is here!” she said. “I should like 
to stay here for hours!” 

“So should I,” agreed Jack, “with you!” 

She laughed, and looking up at him, flushed a 
pretty rose-colour. 

“You’re bold!” she said. 

“As brass!” he responded, gaily. “I’m not a 
Philosopher!” 

She* lowered her eyes, and they began to walk 
homeward together. After a pause, Jack suddenly 
laid an entreating hand on her arm. 

“You’ll not marry him?” he pleaded. 

“He won’t ask me to!” she rejoined, with a 
smile. 

“But—if he did?” persisted Jack. 

“Oh, Jack! Can’t you see? He’s far too much 




52 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

of a Philosopher to marry! A wife would bore him 
to death!” 

“And he’d bore a wife to death, that’s certain!” 
said Jack. “Well!—I suppose I must hope for the 
best! Anyway—you’ll try—yes, try to like me a 
little?’ 

“No need to try!” she answered, sweetly. “I like 
you very, very much! Oh, Jack, yes! We must 
always be the very best friends in the world! Swear 
it!” 

She extended her pretty little ungloved hand, and 
Jack, moved by the spirit of the occasion, took off 
his hat, dropped on one knee and kissed it. 

“I swear!” he said. 

Her gay laughter rippled out on the air. 

“Splendid! Like a knight in a fairy tale!” 

“Fairy tales sometimes come true,” he said, as he 
sprang up from his chivalric attitude. “I’ve made 
a vow, and I mean to keep it!” 

She peeped at him under her golden eyelashes. 

“Good Jack!” she said. “You ought to be very, 
very rich,—oh, immensely rich!” 

“Why?’ 

“Because you would do so many kind things with 
your money,” she answered. “You couldn’t help do¬ 
ing them!” 

“True!” he declared, with a grandiloquent air. 
“I would even pay for you to go to a Cinema! I 
would!” 

Her delightful laughter was like that of a happy 
child. They went on, pacing slowly over the warm 
short grass, a pretty pair to look at, such as Herrick 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 53 


might have sung of, or Shakespeare, when he carolled 
of “the ring-time and the spring-time” and of “sweet 
lovers” who love the spring. Only they were not 
lovers. The pretty Sentimentalist loved Love in 
the abstract, and feared disillusion in its reality. 


CHAPTER IV 


1 " SAW him,” said the Philosopher, sternly. “I 
saw him kneeling at your feet! I saw him with 
my own eyes!” 

She laughed. 

“Really! Well, you could not see him with any 
one else’s eyes, could you?” 

“That answer is merely flippant,” retorted the 
Philosopher. “Flippant—I might say rude!” 

“Oh-h-h!” She made a little whistling round of 
her mouth, and her blue eyes flashed. 

“Rude!” he repeated, rather raspily. “And I ven¬ 
ture to say that in an open field, within a few yards 
of the public road, a man who is such a fool as to 
drop on one knee at a woman’s feet ought to be— 
ought to be”—here he waved one arm magisterially 
—“removed—forcibly removed to Hanwell or Col- 
ney Hatch! He is not responsible for his actions!” 

“No,” she interposed, mischievously. “No man 
in love is!” 

“In love!” The Philosopher snorted. “You call 
that love? To make a ridiculous exposure of him¬ 
self and you in full view of spectators—” 

She pointed a little finger at him. 

“Only one spectator,—you!” she said. “And 
where were you?” 

He gave another snort. 

“I was—I was behind a tree,” he said. “I thought 

54 



LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 55 


I saw you going towards the river—I imagined you 
were alone—” 

“I was at first,” she said. “Jack came on later. 
So you must have been watching quite a long time! 
What a bore for you! Why did you do it?” 

The Philosopher blinked his eyes and frowned. 

“Why did I do it? Because—because”—he hesi¬ 
tated—“yes!—because I like to study the deceptive 
attributes of your sex and the pitfalls they prepare 
for unwary men! This Jack of yours is a perfect 
ass!” 

“Why didn’t you say Jackass at once and have 
done with it?” she demanded, mirthfully. “You 
would have been nearly funny then!” 

The Philosopher looked at her with what he meant 
to be a withering expression. She, however, did not 
wither. 

“Nearly funny!” he echoed. “Silly child, do you 
really think I have not sufficient acumen to perceive 
an obvious play upon words, suggesting stupidity 
rather than humour?” 

A smile dimpled her cheeks in one or two becom¬ 
ing places, but she said nothing. 

“Am I to infer that you approved of the man’s 
attitude in the field?” he demanded. 

The portentous air with which he put this question 
made her laugh outright. 

“Yes!—yes, indeed!” she answered. “The man’s 
attitude in the field—oh, dear me!—was simply de - 
lightful!” And she clapped her hands ecstatically. 
“You see, he’s such a good figure!—and he can drop 
on one knee gracefully—really gracefully!—and he 



56 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

meant it as well!—he was swearing eternal friend¬ 
ship !” 

“Eternal fiddlesticks!” snarled the Philosopher. 
“Where’s my pipe 4 ?” 

They were in the library, a cosy room with a big 
window fronting the west where the last golden 
lines of the sunset were vanishing one by one,—and 
it wanted about an hour to dinner time. She moved 
away and went searching to and fro, on various tables 
and shelves, her light figure in its dainty evening at¬ 
tire of pale blue and white fluttering hither and 
thither like an embodied flower, till presently she 
came back towards him holding out, at a respectful 
distance from herself, a rather dirty briar. 

“Come along, come along!” said the Philosopher, 
testily. “Make haste! It won’t bite you!” 

“No,” and she handed him the repulsive looking 
object. “But it smells—horrid! If you had a wife 
she would not allow you to come near her with such 
a smell!” 

“Oh, wouldn’t she 4 ?” And the Philosopher stuck 
the pipe between his teeth with a defiant air. “If I 
had a wife—which, thank God, I haven’t—” 

“Yes, thank God you haven’t!” she interpolated, 
demurely. 

He looked at her again in his “withering” way, 
but she only smiled. 

“If I had a wife,” he continued, sucking the stem 
of his pipe somewhat noisily, “she would have to 
allow anything I pleased and be glad of the privi¬ 
lege! A man must be master in his own house,— 
and a wise woman knows how to keep her place.” 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 57 


She sank gracefully into a low easy-chair, with 
the soft movement of a bird descending into its nest, 
and looked up at him with a tolerantly amused air. 

“The days of Abraham are past!” she said. 

“What do you mean by that 4 ?” 

“I mean that the Lord doesn’t favour women- 
crushers so much as in the times of Moses and 
Aaron,” she murmured lazily. “You see, Abraham 
was such a 'master in his own house’ that, after mak¬ 
ing all the use he could of Hagar, he turned her out 
into the wilderness to starve. Plenty of modern 
Abrahams would do the same thing with all the 
pleasure in life—but—it’s likely the modern Hagars 
are more than a match for them! And I’m glad— 
oh, so glad, that women are going to have their day 
—at last!” 

The Philosopher had stuffed his pipe with tobacco 
while she spoke, and now prodded it in with a very 
yellow finger. He looked uneasily about him for 
matches, but she did not offer to find them. He dis¬ 
covered them presently and lit his 'fragrant weed’ 
without asking her permission. 

“Women are going to have their day!” he echoed, 
ironically. “What sort of a day do you suppose it 
will be? Confusion worse confounded!” 

She was silent. 

“Woman’s day,” he went on sententiously, 
“means Man. Man at morn,—man at noon,—man 
at night. Woman adores man,—licks his boots 
metaphorically whenever he gives her the chance. 
A Man and a new Hat—that’s enough for Woman’s 
day!” 


58 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 
She laughed. 

“What a funny old person you are!” she ex¬ 
claimed. “You have such fossil ideas!—positively 
fossil!—embedded in rock!—and they’ll never 
change! That’s the worst of being over-learned in 
one direction,—I’m sure it narrows the mind!” 

He began to feel irritated,—yes, really irritated 
with this bunch of blue and white femininity seated 
opposite to him in such graceful ease. 

“My mind is not narrow,” he said, stiffly. “And 
though it may please you to consider me a fossil—” 
“I didn’t say you were a fossil,” she interposed. 
“I said you had fossil ideas—” 

“It is the same thing,” he retorted. “A man and 
his ideas are one. I certainly have not a mind 
adapted to examine the trifling sentiments which af¬ 
fect your sex, but the opinions I have formed are 
based on long experience. You express a childish 
pleasure in the fancy that women are going to have 
their day,—now I maintain that they have always 
had it, to the fullest extent of their very limited 
capabilities. Any wider range of effort would bring 
them nothing but disaster. 

With this he clapped a misshapen old “Hom- 
burg” hat on his head, opened the window, which 
was really a glass door, and went out into the gar¬ 
den, puffing at his briar. He had not a good figure 
—it was inclined to be stumpy, but there was a cer¬ 
tain pathetic droop of his shoulders which betrayed 
both weariness and age, and the pretty Sentimental¬ 
ist, quick to observe this, was suddenly touched and 
compassionate. She sprang up and ran after him. 




LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 59 

“Don’t be cross!” she said. “I’m sorry I called 
your ideas fossils! But—you know—fossils are 
really wonderful things!” 

Her laughing blue eyes, her tossing fair hair, and 
the bewildering “frou-frou” of her dainty blue and 
white silk and chiffon garments made quite a stir in 
the calm evening silence of the garden,—and for the 
moment the self-centred, self-opiniated, self-styled 
“Philosopher” felt a sudden twinge of shamed con¬ 
science. In his own heart he knew he was what he 
would call “amusing himself” with a bright feminine 
creature who took the world on trust and accepted 
him at his own inflated valuation,—he found it con¬ 
venient and agreeable to stay at her father’s house 
and enjoy the luxuries of a well-equipped home 
without paying for it—especially when he could talk 
to a pretty hostess and subtly insinuate a kind of 
love-making without any reality in it. Her mother 
was dead—she was alone to receive and entertain 
such guests as her pedantic father invited to flatter 
him on his personal belief in himself as a great phi¬ 
lologist,—she was,— (in that undefended condition) 
—“fair game” to such a man as the Philosopher. 
There was Jack—Jack was certainly a bore—but 
after all he was merely a neighbour, the eldest son 
of what the Philosopher called a “doubtful” Ameri¬ 
can, who had taken a small cottage some little way 
down the river for the Ashing season. Jack really 
didn’t count for much. So the Philosopher smoothed 
his furrowed brow and pretended to be appeased, as 
he replied to the soft voice ringing in his ears— 

“I’m not cross,” he said. “I’m never cross! I 




60 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

never quarrel! It’s you! You I You fly into a 
tantrum directly you are contradicted. You can’t 
bear to be contradicted. And you call me a fossil! 
Nice way to talk! Never mind!—I forgive you!” 

With which grandiloquent assurance he took her 
hand and patted it. She withdrew it gently,—she 
felt he was unjust. She knew she had not “flown 
into a tantrum” and that what she had said was 
merely playful and without any thought of “quar¬ 
rel.” She walked beside him in the glamour of the 
late after-glow for a few paces in silence,—and he 
was uncomfortably conscious that the delicate sub¬ 
tlety of her personality expressed an unspoken but 
nevertheless decisive lessening of her appreciation of 
him as a man. 

“And so,” he said, presently, with a laboured at¬ 
tempt at lightness—“you approve of Jack as a mod¬ 
ern Knight-errant swearing eternal fidelity*?” 

“I approve of Jack entirely—as Jack,” she an¬ 
swered, quietly. “He’s a good fellow, and very un¬ 
selfish.” 

The Philosopher gave her a blinking, side-long 
glance. 

“Really! Has he managed to impress that fa¬ 
vourable view of himself upon your credulous 
mind^” 

“I don’t think he has tried to impress anything at 
all upon me,” she said. “Only I notice that he 
always considers the pleasure of other people more 
than his own.” 

“Exceedingly quixotic,” commented the Philoso¬ 
pher, drily. “And all the merest affectation. The 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 61 


man who is always looking after the pleasure of 
other people attracts attention to himself—which is 
what he seeks. The man who looks after his own 
comfort passes without notice,—which is the right 
attitude. To call people’s attention to yourself by 
any action whatsoever is very bad form.” 

She looked at him in wondering enquiry. 

“The man,” pursued the Philosopher, hugging 
himself as it were in the wrapping of his own 
theories—“who persists in handing round bread- 
and-butter and cake at a tea-table instead of sitting 
still, is a nuisance. His plain business is to help 
himself, and let others take care of their own needs. 
It is not his business to see whether the women get 
their bread-and-butter and cake—in these days of 
female emancipation they can look after themselves. 
He is a much more sensible creature when he does 
not obtrude himself upon them by tiresome and need¬ 
less attentions. The same rule should apply to door¬ 
opening. There are men who invariably disturb con¬ 
versation by jumping up to open a door for a woman 
to pass out. Detestable! I have had many a good 
story of mine spoilt by this atrocious habit,—Ameri¬ 
cans always do it.” 

“Americans are very kind to women,” she said. “I 
like their ways.” 

He sniffed, as though offended by some noxious 
odour. 

“You do, do you?” he retorted. “Well—I 

don’t.” 

There was a pause. Presently— 

“How are you and Dad getting on with the 



62 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

book 4 ?” she asked. “Is there much more work to 
do?” 

He drew his pipe from his mouth, and knocked 
its ashes out against the stump of a tree. 

“A great deal,” he replied. “A very great deal 
more! Our researches lead us deeper and deeper 
—into the most astonishing intricacies of language 
—indeed one can positively say that language makes 
history. Language creates dynasties and destroys 
them,—Language crowns kings and equally decapi¬ 
tates them—Language—” 

The sonorous clanging of a bell sounded persist¬ 
ently at this moment. 

“Dinner,” she said, in a matter-of-fact tone. 
“That is a language every one understands! I 
think dinner, or the lack of it, has made more 
dynasties than anything! Are you coming?” 

“I follow you,” he said, moved by a sort of ob¬ 
stinacy which led him to avoid the courtesy of ac¬ 
companying her. She thereupon sprang away from 
him into the house, where she took her seat at the 
dinner table opposite her father, a choleric old gen¬ 
tleman who had already begun guzzling the soup. 
He 'never waited for anybody 7 as he informed all 
whom it might concern; and when the Philosopher 
sauntered in, a few minutes late as he always did 
for every meal, to the mute disgust of the parlour¬ 
maid, there was very little soup left. At this the 
fair Sentimentalist was not ill-pleased. It was 
naughty, she said to herself, to be quite glad that 
there was so little soup for so learned a man—still, 
learned as he was, he made ugly noises when he 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 63 


ate soup, and it was just as well that there was 
not much to make a noise with. She found the 
dinner rather boresome on this particular evening, 
—the Philosopher and her father prosed and prosed 
along in the dreariest dry ruts of conversation, now 
and then telling each other what they considered 
“good” stories, old as the oldest inhabitant of the 
most ancient jest-book. The Philosopher, in his 
assertive superiority of intelligence, had an aggra¬ 
vating way of prefacing any special story of his 
own by the question “Are you listening 4 ?” and, if 
the response was not entirely submissive and sat¬ 
isfactory, he would sniff a whole nest of embryo 
influenzas up his nose and remark, cuttingly, “Then 
I’ll wait!” The wrathful wretchedness of the per¬ 
sons who thus held him sniffing and “waiting” can 
only be imagined by discerning students of human 
nature. And the Sentimentalist, a little less pa¬ 
tient with his ways than usual, felt a great relief 
when she could escape from the dinner table to the 
solitude of her own quiet room. Once there, she 
leaned out from the open window and looked at 
the bright stars, sprinkling the sky like big dew- 
drops,—and wondered, a trifle sadly, how life was 
going to turn out for her. From early childhood 
she had devoted every wish, every thought, every 
hope to her father,—and he was getting very old, 
very gouty and very cross. Lately he had found a 
certain solace for his constant irritability in the 
study of philology and the society of the Philoso¬ 
pher who assumed the same bent of research,—and, 
to a certain extent, she was grateful for this dis- 


64 LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

traction to his frequently self-torturing mind. But 
she was rather a lonely little person,—and when the 
Philosopher first appeared on her limited horizon, 
she had hailed his presence with an unreasoning joy, 
because she loved books, and understood that he 
loved them too. She pictured the delightful talks 
she would have with this gifted personage about 
the authors they both admired,—and she was cer¬ 
tain he would have a splendid character—generous, 
noble, patient, kind—because—oh, well!—because 
he had studied so much, and knew so much, and 
because he was a Philosopher. So she had idealised 
him in her mind, and accepted him at the ideal val¬ 
uation,—a condition of pure romantic sentimental¬ 
ism which amused him because it is rare to find 
nowadays, and when found, is so easy to destroy. 
From the merely physical and absolutely sensual 
side of things he was disposed to make love to her. 
The tentative efforts he had put forth in that direc¬ 
tion had moved her, first to wonder, then to the 
faintest, half-compassionate response. He was old, 
she thought—and he seemed to have no one who 
cared for him. And she was touched to find so 
learned a man expressing any liking for her even 
by a look,—though her own intellectual ability was 
higher than his, had she known it. She was sorry 
for him too, in a way—he appeared to be a neglected 
sort of creature, albeit an authority on dull subjects 
in dull weekly journals and monthly magazines,— 
his coats were shabby, his shirt-cuffs frayed at the 
edges,—and he never at any time was what is called 
“well-groomed.” She did not realise that his gen* 



LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 65 


erally unkempt condition was part of his particular 
“philosophic” manner,—a kind of advertised con¬ 
tempt for conventional cleanliness. He could be 
very agreeable when he chose,—almost lovable;— 
he could be amusing, entertaining and witty by 
turns; and when strangers first met him, they gen¬ 
erally received a most favourable impression. The 
second meeting, however, unfortunately swamped 
the effect of the first,—and when he stayed on and 
on in a house, as he was doing now, there were 
times when his room was more desired than his 
company. But a kind of glamour,—a reflex glitter 
of genius in him,—had somewhat blinded the Sen¬ 
timentalist to any clear perception of his true char¬ 
acter as a man, apart altogether from his literary 
distinction,—and though she had begun to be un¬ 
easy and dubious as to his sincerity and good feel¬ 
ing, she would not give way to these thoughts, no 
matter how urgently they pressed upon her. And 
while she mused, and looked up at the stars, they 
seemed to look responsively down upon her in a 
winking, twinkling way of bright suggestiveness. 

“What a quaint little soul it is!” so they might 
have expressed themselves in a couple of light- 
flashes. “Here it lives, tricking itself into thinking 
an egotist a great man! We know better!” 

And they sparkled their emphatic meaning 
through the dark veil of air, while she, leaving her 
window-post of observation, took her embroidery 
and went down to the billiard-room there to sit in 
silent patience while her father and the Philosopher 
played a long game, as they did every night with 


66 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

an unwearying pertinacity till bed-time. They did 
not consider whether she was amused or bored by 
what to themselves was their own consummate skill 
in handling the cue, and she would gladly have 
stayed away but that her father expected her to act 
as “marker” if desired, and otherwise make herself 
useful. The whole business was frightfully dull 
as far as she was concerned—she was tired to death 
of the continuous click of the billiard balls, and 
sometimes heard them in her dreams, so incessantly 
were they rolled about night after night. The odd¬ 
est thing to her mind was that the Philosopher never 
seemed tired of the game. He never spoke to her 
while engaged in it—or, ’for that matter, to her 
father except in monosyllables,—round and round 
the table he strutted, cue in hand, pipe in mouth, 
without a thought for anything or anybody but 
himself. He played more skilfully than his host, 
and never lost an opportunity of asserting the fact, 
—and sometimes when the gentle Sentimentalist 
saw her father getting redder and more congested 
in the face with suppressed annoyance at his various 
“misses” she was both sorry and anxious lest his 
restrained feeling should culminate in an attack of 
illness. However, it was no use for her to confide 
these fears to the Philosopher; he had the greatest 
contempt for illness that affected anybody but him¬ 
self. But—after all!—she decided it was some¬ 
thing of an advantage to know a man who could 
always get an article into the big “Reviews” pro¬ 
vided it were only dull enough,—it was surely a 
privilege to associate with such a powerful person- 



LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 67 


age!—and it was an understood thing that gifted 
men—Philosophers—were apt to become self-cen¬ 
tred. Now Jack,—oh, Jack was not self-centred— 
but then he was not clever—he was—well!—he 
was just “Jack”! 


CHAPTER V 


/^\N a warm August morning it is not altogether 
unpleasant to recline on a long lounge chair in 
the deep soft shadow of full-foliaged trees and re¬ 
sign one’s self to meditation which may or may 
not be profitable. The Philosopher was in this con¬ 
dition of dolce far niente , and though he did not 
present an altogether elegant appearance in the re¬ 
cumbent attitude he was for the moment more con¬ 
cerned with inward comfort than exterior effect. 
He was in a thinking mood. He was taking him¬ 
self seriously to task and considering whether he 
should marry. He was not really a marrying man, 
but it occurred to him now and then that he was 
no longer young, and that it might be necessary 
to have some one to take care of him. No one was 
so well adapted to “take care” of an ageing, gouty, 
grumpy man with a touch of intellectuality about 
him as a wife. A wife with a sufficiency of good 
looks to be agreeable to the eye,—a wife with a 
sufficiency of money in her own right to save her 
husband all extra exertion in the business of living. 
Now the Philosopher had just by chance found out 
that his little friend and hostess, the Sentimentalist, 
had or would have money. He thought, with pleas¬ 
ing placidity, of a college friend of his own, who 
had married a woman with money, and who had 
gleefully rejoiced in his position, with refreshing 

candour, saying,—“A Plum I tell you! A regular 

68 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 69 


Plum! Ripe and ready!—fell into my mouth with 
a bang!” 

The Philosopher was by no means certain that 
the Sentimentalist was a Plum. She was very kind 
to him,—she had pretty, docile, winsome ways, and 
seemed disposed to “play” with him as a kitten plays 
with a ball of wool,—she was evidently amused 
when he held her hand, or patted her shoulder,— 
but he felt more than positive that she would not 
“fall into his mouth with a bang!” Her father 
had confided to him that he meant to leave her a 
considerable fortune,—“and,” mused the Philoso¬ 
pher, dreamily,—“the old gentleman is getting very 
shaky. Memory going too,—sense of proportion 
quite lost.” He yawned, and drove off a bouncing 
bumble-bee that just then presumed to come too 
near his rather prominent nose,—then, stretching 
himself lazily half rose from his reclining attitude 
as he perceived a little white figure approaching him 
from the further garden, with a newspaper in its 
hand. He waited, a trifle impatiently. 

“Dear me, what a time she is!” he complained 
sotto voce. “She doesn’t read newspapers as a rule. 
What’s in the wind now*?” 

For she had looked up suddenly, and seeing him, 
began to run. For a mere Sentimentalist she ran 
well,—gracefully and swiftly. 

“Such news!” she cried, as she approached him. 
“Such terrible news! England has declared war 
with Germany!” 

“Fiddlesticks!” said the Philosopher, emphati¬ 
cally. “I don’t believe a word of it!” 


70 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

A little breathless with her run she swept some 
straying curls of gold from her eyes, and handed 
him the paper. There was the announcement sure 
enough—the brief, curt statement that was to 
drench Europe with blood. But the Philosopher 
was obstinate. 

“All twaddle!” he declared. “Newspaper lies . 
and twaddle!” 

Her blue eyes rested upon him with something of 
wonder and sadness. 

“You think so? I hope you may be right!” she 
said, earnestly. “Oh, I do hope you may be right!” 

“Of course, I’m right,” he declared. “I’ve got 
some common sense. I know how these things are 
worked up I tell you! What’s it all about?” Here 
he scanned the newspaper again. “Belgium? 
What on earth have we got to do with Belgium! 
Nice muddle we make of everything! Belgium 
wants to protect France from invasion?—well, let 
her! There’s no need for us to put our fingers into 
the pie! Let them all settle their own affairs!” 

“But—honour?—” she suggested. 

“Honour? It depends on what’s called honour. 
A hundred years ago we were fighting the French 
at Waterloo—now we want to defend them. Why? 
We didn’t help them in the Franco-German war. 
We let them fight it out. So we should now. 
Twaddle, I tell you!—all twaddle!” 

She smiled and sighed. 

“Well, it seems to me very serious news,” she 
.said. “It has quite spoilt the day for me.” 

“Why should it spoil the day?” he demanded. 



LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 71 

“What have you got to do with it? Here you are 
in a nice garden,—lovely weather—and I believe 
you’ve got a new hat on. What else can any 
woman want?” 

She gave a tiny shrug of her shoulders, which 
implied that he was not worth the trouble of an¬ 
swering. He continued, pleased with his own re¬ 
marks : 

“Women know nothing about war or politics,” 
he said. “They are not expected to know. They 
have their homes and their home duties—” 

“And their men,” she interposed. “Their hus¬ 
bands and brothers and lovers,—in war these have 
to go and light—” 

“Of course they have,” agreed the Philosopher. 
“Most of them are only lit for cannon-fodder.” 

She flushed angrily. 

“Oh! Do you mean that?” she exclaimed. 

“Of course I mean it! Ordinary men are ex¬ 
ceedingly stupid—they have just two predominating 
ideas, food and money. The world loses nothing 
when this sort of eating, spending microbes are 
cleared out by a big war—on the contrary things 
go on better without them after they are killed 
off.” 

“And the women who loved them?” she asked, 
indignantly. 

He smiled. 

“You are a dear little goose!” he said, quite 
kindly. “You are always thinking about people 
who dove’ each other. How many of them do you 
suppose there are?” 


72 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 


She made no reply. 

“Love,” went on the Philosopher, “is a rare 
thing. In fact it is so rare that it may be said 
not to exist,—except in romantic novels and poetry, 
—two very unreliable forms of literature. What 
is called ‘love’ is merely the attraction of opposite 
sexes—the ordinary procedure of the world of na¬ 
ture.” He paused. He was much inclined to dis¬ 
course on the propagation of species, but somehow 
he found it difficult. The graceful little figure be¬ 
side him hardly suited his ideas of intended com¬ 
parison with the rest of the animal world. Strictly 
speaking, she was of course an animal of the female 
gender, as he was an animal of the male,—but he 
could not fit in his discourse on natural selection 
with a bunch of white frippery, fair hair and a win¬ 
some smile. “Love,” he concluded, lamely, “is a 
poet’s dream.” 

“I wonder you admit it is as much as that!” she 
said,—and her eyes flashed. “I agree with you to 
some extent—but to me it is God’s dream of the 
world!” 

He gazed at her, amused. 

“Very far-fetched!” he said. “Did you get that 
out of a book? Of course you did! Well, all I 
can say is that if there is a God dreaming anything 
about the world, the dream is something of a night¬ 
mare. You’re a woman and you don’t think. Have 
you ever seen a London slum? No. Well, men 
and women herd there together like brutes, wives 
striking husbands and husbands kicking wives, while 
little sentimentalists like you live in the country 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 73 


among roses and talk about ‘love.’ Love! Fid¬ 
dlesticks! Very young people—girls and boys,— 
imagine they ‘love’ like Romeo and Juliet,—but 
have you ever thought how Romeo and Juliet would 
have got on as Mr. and Mrs. Montagu?” 

She laughed—she could not help laughing. 

“No, indeed!” she answered. “I’ve never gone 
so far as that!” 

“Gone so far!” echoed the Philosopher, ironically. 
“That’s not going far! That’s simply the plain 
commonplace line of conduct. To live together as 
Mr. and Mrs. Montagu would have entailed far 
more heroism than to swallow poison or stab one’s 
self with a dagger after a romantic soliloquy. Mrs. 
Montagu would have had to order the dinner and 
Mr. Montagu in his turn would have had to pay 
the bills. All the nonsense they talked out of win¬ 
dow to each other would have been clean forgotten. 
He would have shown himself in slippers and she 
in a dressing gown. The silks and velvets they 
wore as two precocious young humbugs at old Cap- 
ulet’s ball—or rather the silks and velvets the actors 
wear who impersonate them nowadays, would have 
had very little place in their wardrobe. They would 
have settled down to the plain routine of life,—per¬ 
fect commonplace, without any sentiment.” 

She stood, looking at him earnestly. 

“I am sorry for you!” she said. “Your outlook 
is so very dreary! It’s like opening a window on 
a back-yard!” 

He was not displeased. 

“Back-yards are useful and necessary,” he ob- 


74 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

served, complacently. “So are dust-holes. Senti¬ 
ment and silliness are not necessary.” 

Suddenly she laughed merrily. 

“I really think you ought to get married!” she 
said. “You are such an admirer of the common¬ 
place that you ought to try matrimony!” 

He smiled, a superior smile. 

“Possibly I may try it,” he answered, “if cir¬ 
cumstances are favourable! But I would never play 
a Romeo.” 

Her laughter rang out again. 

“I should think not!” she exclaimed. “You 
couldn’t! Oh, dear, no! Fancy you under a bal¬ 
cony 'sighing like a furnace’ and saying: 

“ ‘Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand 
That I might touch that cheek!’ 


or— 


“ ‘She speaks,— 

Oh, speak again, bright angel for thou art 
As glorious to this night, being o’er my head 
As is a winged messenger of heaven 
Unto the white, upturned, wondering eyes 
Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him 
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds 
And sails upon the bosom of the air!’ ” 

She spoke the exquisite lines with a delicious in¬ 
tonation of feeling, and the Philosopher nodded his 
head to and fro with the rhythm of the blank verse 
like a Chinese mandarin. 

“Very good!” he said. “I notice you are fond 
of declamation. You should study for the stage.” 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 75 


A flush swept over her features,—she was indig¬ 
nant, but refrained from any outward expression 
of her thoughts. 

“Thank you!” she said, curtly. 

The Philosopher felt that he had somehow stum¬ 
bled into a mistake. His remark was evidently not 

* 

of a kind that was pleasing to the Sentimentalist. 
But, like all self-centred, self-opiniated men, he 
went a little further into the quagmire. 

“My remark was meant as a compliment,” he 
explained, laboriously. “Actresses are the only 
really successful women nowadays. They are 
petted and praised and their touched-up glorified 
portraits are in all the weekly journals—” 

“Do you call that success*?” she interrupted him, 
in coolly contemptuous tones. “Or even simple 
womanliness*?” 

He laughed quite pleasantly. 

“You really are a very quaint child!” he said. 
“Simple womanliness!” All that sort of thing went 
out with the second half of the reign of Victoria. 
I was going to say it is as extinct as the Dodo,— 
but that has been said before—to give it a smack 
of originality, let me assure you it is as extinct 
as Benson’s Dodo.” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, still 
coldly. “You are too clever for me.” 

He took her hand and patted it condescendingly. 

“Let us leave it at that!” he said. “We’ll go 
and look at the roses! And the bees! ‘How doth 
the little busy bee’! You know the verse*? And 
do you also know it is a much more familiar ‘poem’ 


76 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 


to the public than the ‘Paradise Lost’ ? You do 
know that? Good! Then you are a sensible girl! 
And we can wait for the newspapers to fall into 
cackles of contradictory rumour before we believe 
in the war,—and for Mr. and Mrs. Montagu to 
come forward as a married couple before we believe 
in love!” 

He smiled,—for a Philosopher he had quite an 
attractive smile,—and now and then he had a curi¬ 
ous passing tenderness of manner that never failed 
to make an impression on the hearts of credulous 
and sympathetic women. The Sentimentalist be¬ 
gan to think she had judged him rather hastily 
and hardly,—he read her thoughts in the wistful 
expression of her upturned blue eyes, and straight¬ 
way responded by adopting for himself a quietly 
resigned and patient air. She grew more and more 
self-reproachful,—he more and more bland and con¬ 
descending, and by the time they had reached the 
rose-walk she was in the position of a charming^ 
penitent, though she had committed no fault; and 
he had assumed the kindly manner of a father con¬ 
fessor who had just granted absolution. He pulled 
his black and corroded pipe from his pocket. 

“I may smoke?” he queried, half coaxingly. 

She nodded,—and yet she could not help wonder¬ 
ing why he wanted to smoke just as they reached 
the lovely trellis work of roses that clambered and 
twined, and hung down their graceful heads laden 
with delicious perfume. The moment the fumes 
of tobacco were puffed into the air, all the sweet¬ 
ness of the exquisite blossoms would be spoilt; but 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 77 


she made no protest, and stood silently watching 
him at his old trick of prodding the “Navy-cut” into 
the bowl of his briar with the usual yellow finger. 
And she did not conceal from herself that it was 
an ugly performance. In due time and after some 
fidgeting, the pipe was lit, and the natural sweet 
incense of the roses was smothered by the smoke 
which the Philosopher emitted like a human chim¬ 
ney. He had the habit of opening his mouth in 
a studied round O, in order to make “rings” of 
smoke in the air as he puffed away,—it was not a 
habit that became him, but he was fortunately not 
aware of the satyr-like aspect he presented while 
engaged in what he considered artistry in smoking. 

“Now,” he said, comfortably, after having suc¬ 
cessfully accomplished several “rings,”—“let’s talk! 
What does your father say of this morning’s news'?” 

“Dad! Oh, he isn’t at all surprised. He says 
it is what we all ought to have seen coming years 
ago, and that the country should have been pre¬ 
pared.” 

“Oh, most sagacious Dad! Why isn’t he Prime 
Minister! Of course we knew!—of course every 
body knew!” And the Philosopher gave a short, 
grunting laugh. “Especially a good old gentleman 
living in the country and passing his time between 
dictionaries and cucumber-frames! If he didn't 
know, who should*? ‘Who dies if England lives!’ 
By the way what a piece of utter nonsense that is! 
The world would get on very well without Eng¬ 
land!” 

She gave a little cry. 


78 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 


“Oh, how can you say so! And you an English- 

___^ |>J 

man: 

“Dear child, my nationality is a mere accident 
of birth. I might just as well have been a kanga¬ 
roo! Chance gave me English parents—and I’m 
not ungrateful to chance. But simply because I’m 
an Englishman, born in England, I’m not such a 
fool as to suppose my country the only respectable 
one in the world.” 

“It’s the greatest, the noblest, the most glorious!” 
she said, her breast heaving and her eyes flashing. 
“I would die for it to-morrow if I were a man!” 

He smiled. 

“What’s the good of dying for it?” he queried. 
“Much better to live for it, and do useful work 
for it! Surely you agree? Suppose you—or I— 
or any one—dies for it—you or I or that 'any one’ 
must become absolutely useless,—a mere lump of 
dead matter, burnt or buried and forgotten in a 
week! What does England gain by that? Dear 
child, do be reasonable! England is a charming 
country, and if any of us who are alive to-day can 
assist in adding to its charm by either our talents 
or our personalities, so much the better. But to die 
for it!—just think, by way of example, how much 
grace your presence gives to this garden!—a pres¬ 
ence which, if removed, it would be difficult to re¬ 
place !” 

His eyes twinkled humorously,—and she hardly 
knew whether to be flattered or annoyed. 

“If the news of the coming war be true,” she 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 79 


said, “many presences will be removed, never to be 
replaced. 7 ’ 

“True!” he replied. “Unquestionably true! But 
the removal of a considerable majority of useless 
persons is not so much a loss as a gain to the world. 
I speak from the logical and philosophic standpoint. 
I do not suppose the world at large is very much 
the worse for the destruction of Pompeii, for ex¬ 
ample. It does not appear that any one of par¬ 
ticular note or service in the city had enough of 
high or singular reputation to make his loss a last¬ 
ing memorial of fame. See here!” and taking her 
gently by the arm he stopped at an ant-hill raised 
in the grass path along which they strolled. 
“There’s a busy world! Look at the little brown 
citizens scampering here and there on the chief busi¬ 
ness of life, eating and breeding! Now for an 
eruption of Vesuvius!”—and he struck a fusee from 
a small box he carried, and flung it alight on the 
ant-hill. “What a scrimmage! What heroic 
deaths! Look well!—” and, as she stooped, watch¬ 
ing the insect tragedy with keen interest and pity,— 
“You occupy for the moment the position of a fair 
goddess uplifted above the tortures of a race of 
beings with whom you have no concern. You can 
see three or four brave warriors endeavouring to 
drag the fusee out of the vortex in which it burns, 
—Horatius keeping the bridge was never more 
heroic than they! They go to certain death—those 
that perish are instantly replaced by others equally 
brave. Well!” and he smiled as she raised her 


80 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

beautiful, blue, limpid eyes to his in questioning 
wonder—“You look as though you asked for a 
meaning—it is simply that my fusee was as an 
eruption of Vesuvius to this particular ant-Pompeii, 
—and if, as the newspapers say, there is going to 
be a war with Germany you may take it that God, 
or Fate, or whatever you choose to call Natural 
Law, is merely flinging a fusee into an ant-hill.” 

“Then you think human beings no more valua¬ 
ble than ants?” she demanded, half angrily. 

“Less valuable sometimes,” he responded plac¬ 
idly. “When they are greasy multi-millionaires I 
give the preference to respectable ants. Every one 
has different tastes of course—but personally, speak¬ 
ing for myself alone, I would rather be an ant than 
a millionaire grocer.” 

She laughed,—she found him thoroughly amus¬ 
ing,—and—yes!—he was certainly cleverer and 
more entertaining than Jack! He watched her, 
admiring with an artist’s eye the flecks of gold hair 
against the whiteness of her neck. He took one 
or two puffs at his pipe. 

“I like to hear you laugh!” he said. “You do 
it prettily!” 

She gave him a quaint little curtsey. 

“Thanks!” 

“It’s not a compliment,” he went on, “so thanks 
are superfluous. You are at your best in a pleasant 
humour. You have a charming smile and a fas¬ 
cinating manner—when you are good! But when 
you are put out, you look quite different—and you 
lose your charm.” 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 81 

“That is the case with everybody/’ she said. 

“Not always. Some women look their best in a 
passion. Flashing eyes, dishevelled hair, and gen¬ 
eral tantrums, make them diabolically beautiful. 
But you, with your dove-like glance and soft 
bright hair are of the elfin type—and I believe— 
if fairy tales are true!—that elves are never an¬ 
gry” 

She looked at him and smiled. He was in his 
kindliest, most attractive mood, and when he al¬ 
lowed himself the relaxation of perfect good tem¬ 
per, he could be almost lovable. 

“Elves,” he repeated, “are never angry. They 
are full of pranks and wiles, but they are never 
unkind to their friends—” 

“I am not unkind!” she interrupted quickly. 

“Dear child, I never said you were! But your 
incorrigible sentiment makes you hasty in judgment 
—quick to condemn. I’m quite sure you think me 
a sort of masked traitor because I fail to see any 
virtue in dying for England, and prefer to live for 
her. I’m equally positive you have your doubts 
as to my sense of common humanity because I say 
and because I mean that a very large number of 
people would be better out of the world than in 
it. And so you misunderstand me. Your Jack 
now—” 

“He’s not c my’ Jack,” she interposed, swiftly. 

“Well, he’d like to be,” retorted the Philosopher. 
“And of course he’d ‘die’ for England—no!—for 
America and the Old Glory!’—Delightful bunkum! 
He’s all nobleness, patriotism, enthusiasm and 


82 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

heart! A nice boy —quite a nice boy,—but insuf¬ 
ferably dull!” 

She was silent. 

“Dulness,” pursued the Philosopher, “is the only 
unforgivable sin. Now you cannot say I am dull!” 

She peeped at him from under the brim of her 
hat,—an answer was on her lips, but she would 
not utter it. 

“I amuse you,” he went on. “I make you laugh! 
That is a great thing! Isn’t it?” 

She nodded, smilingly. 

“I have,” went on the Philosopher, complacently, 
“an original turn of mind. I say things in an orig¬ 
inal manner. People quote my remarks as being 
new and funny. It’s a great help in social life 
to have a man among your friends who may be 
relied upon to speak in a way which no one else 
can imitate. It ‘lifts’ conversation. Don’t you 
agree with me?” 

Her eyes twinkled mischievously. 

“Well, I’m not sure!” she said. “There are some 
clever men who can be duller than very stupid ones, 
—though of course they always think themselves 
amusing. They tell the same , stories over and over 
again—the same old jokes and witticisms,—and it 
is very difficult to listen to,them patiently and smile 
as if you were pleased, when really you’re bored!” 

He nodded his head. 

“True!—very true! I have met many such men. 
I always avoid them when I can. But the moral 
of the whole thing is that one should know as few 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 83 

people as possible and never keep up with those 
few longer than a month or six weeks.” 

She gave him an astonished look. 

c AVhy, then we should have no friends!” she 
exclaimed. 

He smiled indulgently. 

“Have we any friends anyhow?” he asked. 
“What are 'friends’ ? Are they not dear sweet peo¬ 
ple who abuse you behind your back and take an 
inward deep pleasure in hearing of your faults and 
misfortunes? The friends of your youth for ex¬ 
ample? I’m not speaking personally of you , for 
you are still young—but if you have any so-called 
'friends’ now, and they and you live a few years 
longer, you’ll have these dear creatures coming 
along and saying, 'Really, is it you? I shouldn’t 
have known you! Why it’s years and years since 
I saw you!—ages!’—despite the fact that it may 
be only five summers since you last met. But the 
expression 'years and years’ and 'ages’ is used to let 
you feel how old you have grown since then; I 
know the kind of thing I tell you! And I have 
always made it my business to forget schoolfellows 
and college companions,—drop them altogether. I 
don’t want their 'reminiscences’ and I’m sure they 
don’t want mine. The secret of happiness in this 
world is to forget as you go along. Forget the past, 
live in the present, and don’t worry about the 
future.” 

She was silent. And she kept silence so long that 
he had time to finish his pipe, knock out its ashes 


84 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

against a tree, and put it in his pocket. Then he 
looked sideways at her, and saw that the winsome 
face was sad. Without ceremony he took her arm, 
and walked on past all the roses to a smooth stretch 
of greensward beyond. 

“You see/’ he resumed gently, “we are only on 
this interesting planet for a short time, and it seems 
common sense—to me at least—that we should en¬ 
deavour to make that time as pleasant as possible. 
If we hold on to friends who knew us as children 
we find them as changed as we ourselves are changed, 
and that isn't pleasant. Therefore, why expose our¬ 
selves to the shock? No greater mistake was ever 
made by the human being—than to keep up his 
so-called ‘friends.’ It costs money and wastes 
time—” 

She lifted her head quickly. 

“Then if you think love a mistake and friendship 
a bore, can you tell what life is worth?” she asked. 

“Dear elfin lady, I can! Life is worth living on 
account of the various agreeable sensations it pro¬ 
vides. It is all ‘sensation ’—not sentiment! Love is 
a ‘sensation’—a violent one—an attraction between 
two persons of opposite sex which is quite exhil¬ 
arating and inspiring—for a short time. During 
that short time it has been known to move poets 
to their best efforts—though as a rule these indi¬ 
viduals write their rhymes to the ‘sensation’—not 
to the person they imagine they adore. Friendship 
is also a ‘sensation,’—the feeling that one had found 
one’s ‘sympathy’—one’s alter ego —a most mislead¬ 
ing idea as a rule. But any ‘sensation’ is for the 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 85 


moment agreeable, provided it is not physically 
painful—and these varying sensations are the sum 
bonum of life. 5 ’ 

She sighed. 

“I do not like your outlook/’ she said. “It makes 
everything seem so contemptible and worthless.” 

He gave an airy gesture with his disengaged 
hand. 

“What would you! Everything is contemptible 
and worthless, considered from the strictly philo¬ 
sophical standpoint. Civilisations, like men, are 
only born to die and be forgotten,—we trouble our¬ 
selves uselessly in efforts to keep them alive after 
their appointed span. Certain races attain to a high 
state of education and then begin to degenerate and 
hark back to the old roots of savagery—” 

“And what do you argue from all this?” she de¬ 
manded. 

“Why, that we should enjoy the present hour as 
I am doing,” he replied, smiling agreeably. “And 
repel the symptoms of degeneracy in ourselves and 
others as forcibly as we can!” 

She sighed again, and pausing, withdrew her arm 
from his. 

“Poor, pretty, elfin lady!” he said kindly. “You 
do not like my way of looking at the world!” 

“No! Most certainly not!” she answered, 
quickly. “If one thought the things you say, one 
would commit suicide!” 

“Oh, no, one wouldn’t!” and he smiled. “Not 
as long as”—here he looked about him—“not as 
long as a butterfly exists!”—and he pointed to one 


86 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

just settling on a spray of clematis—“or a pretty 
woman!” 

She moved on without a word, and he felt for 
his pipe in his pocket. She looked back over her 
shoulder. 

“I am going indoors,” she called. “Do you want 
anything before I go?” 

He took a couple of leisurely strides and came up 
again beside her. 

“No—I have my 'notes’ and a pencil—simple 
things, but they suffice! And you can leave me the 
newspaper—its news is false, its English detestable 
and its self-advertisement appalling—like all the 
rest of its class—but a printed Ananias always 
amuses me—I only regret it does not fall dead like 
its mythical prototype!” 

She had been holding the newspaper in one hand 
—she now gave it him with a little wistful upward 
glance that somehow hurt him and made him feel 
uncomfortable. He realised that his 'philosophy’ 
had cast a yellow fog on the sunny brightness of 
her day. He took her hand, looked at its dimpled 
whiteness critically and then gravely kissed it. 

“Cheer up!” he said. “It’s a nice little world— 
and—you’ve got a pretty little hand! It makes 
life worth living—or it ought to!—for you. And 
also for me.” 

She laughed softly. 

“Oh, how absurd you are!” she said. “I don’t 
think you mean half you say!” 

“Probably not!” he answered, mildly. “It is a 
very abstruse problem for a man to find out exactly 



LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 87 


what he means. I doubt if any man has ever done 
it—not even old Socrates. And I’m not Socrates—” 
“No, indeed!” she interrupted him. “You are— 
you are—” 

“Diogenes 4 ?” he suggested. 

She laughed again, nodded and ran off. 




CHAPTER VI 


/ TT V HE ensuing weeks proved to the Philosopher 
-*■ beyond a doubt that so far as the war news 
was concerned it was not “twaddle . 57 Needless to 
recapitulate all the cruel and terrible happenings 
which are burned deep into the nation's brain, and 
graven ineffaceably on the recording stone of His¬ 
tory,—and the details of such lives lived like that 
of the Philosopher, out of the reach of the enemy’s 
fire, hardly deserve to be chronicled at all save for 
the curious fact that despite “battle, murder and 
sudden death” these lives go on more or less plac¬ 
idly, unmoved by good or ill report of what does 
not immediately concern themselves. Like the old 
farmer pictured in “Punch” whose wife warned a 
visitor not to speak of the war, “Cos 5 e don’t bleeve 
there ain’t no war,” so the Philosopher pursued the 
even tenor of his way, spending more and longer 
time in the country, especially after “raids” began 
to affect London’s social equanimity. He plunged 
deeper and deeper into labyrinths of forgotten lan¬ 
guages, delving for the “root” of this word and the 
“branches” of that,—and taking care to delight his 
host (who daily became more gouty and irritable) 
with the patience of his research and the “flattering 
unction” he applied to the self-satisfaction of the 
good old gentleman, who firmly believed that his 

great work—“The Deterioriation of Language In- 

88 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 89 

variably Perceived as a Precursor to the Decadence 
of Civilisation” was destined to reform the world. 
His pet theory was that if the language of a people 
could be preserved in pristine purity and elegance 
of speech, without the introduction of slang or 
flippant abbreviations, it would go a long way to 
check degeneration and decay. There was no doubt 
something in it;—as the Philosopher once sagely 
remarked, “there is always something in every¬ 
thing,”—but it was a something not likely to ap¬ 
peal to the average understanding. Anyway he was 
happy in his old age, pursuing a fox of a word 
through the brushwood of centuries with hounds 
of argument, urged on by the Philosopher,—and 
as long as they two could sit turning over diction¬ 
aries and comparing notes, they paid little heed to 
the Great War raging across Channel except as an 
echo of distant thunder. With the pretty Senti¬ 
mentalist it was different. She busied herself with 
a thousand things. Punctiliously careful of her 
father’s household, and attentive to all his wishes 
and caprices, she nevertheless found time to help 
all sorts of “war charities,”—and as soon as she 
heard of a V.A.D. hospital being started in the 
neighbourhood she offered her services for so many 
hours each day,—services which were readily ac¬ 
cepted. The “Commandant,” a sour, stern, old, 
county lady with more wrinkles than hairs, set her 
to do the dirtiest and most repulsive sort of work, for 
several cogent reasons—first, because she was pretty, 
—secondly, because her hands were white and well- 
kept, and as the “county” dame remarked, with an 



90 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

impressive sniff to herself, “Do her good to get 
them roughened a bit”—and thirdly, because she 
was a sensitive creature, and ugly sights and smells 
made her sick. But she was quite docile and obe¬ 
dient, and did all she was told to do with a patient 
sweetness which might have softened any heart but 
that of the V.A.D. “commandant” whose life-organ 
had apparently become tanned and hardened into 
a species of human leather. She never told her 
father or his friend the Philosopher anything about 
her hospital duties,—nor did they in their complete 
self-absorption notice that she looked frail and tired 
in the evenings. 

““Women must have something to do,” said the 
Philosopher, comfortably. “And it amuses them to 
go fussing over wounded men and putting bandages 
on broken heads and limbs—it saves them ,—saves 
them, I do assure you! That V.A.D. hospital is a 
perfect godsend to the women of this neighbour¬ 
hood—gives them a fresh interest in life and stops 
their horrible “bridge” for a time. To wipe the 
fevered manly brow and comb the manly hair gives 
them a thrill of delightful excitement—it’s some¬ 
thing new; and the plainest old spectacled harridan 
that ever lived likes to be called ‘Sister’ by a smart 
boy of twenty. Yes! the V.A.D. is a boon and a 
blessing!—it serves a double purpose: sick-nursing 
and matrimony. The blacksmith’s anvil at Gretna 
Green is not in it with a bed in a convalescent ward, 
and a good-looking ‘sister’ about.” 

His gouty host grumbled assent—the Sentimen¬ 
talist listened without comment. When the Philos- 



LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 91 


opher talked in this sort of way she always felt 
herself removed very far from him,—she realised, 
with a little sense of pain that he and she had 
nothing in common. She had an appreciation of 
what she imagined to be his “cleverness,” but she 
also had a keen consciousness that he merely toler¬ 
ated what he considered her stupidity under the 
guise of “sentiment.” 

One day on her way back from her work at the 
V.A.D. she met Jack. She had not seen him for 
some time, and had lately wondered what kept him 
so long away, but the moment she saw him she knew. 
He was in khaki,—and very smart and well set up 
he looked. Yet there was an expression in his 
handsome young face that altered it somehow—and 
her heart beat a little more quickly as she held 
out her hand to him with a pleased utterance of his 
name: 

“Jack!” 

He smiled tenderly into her uplifted eyes. 

“Yes, it’s me!” he said. “I’ve joined up. I had 
to. I couldn’t rest day or night till I did.” 

“But—but you are an American!” she ex¬ 
claimed. 

“Yes. But I’m a man too, I hope! I couldn’t 
see all the brave blood of Britain starting to kill 
the Hun Dragon without wanting to be a bit of St. 
George myself. And America will be in the tussle 
presently. That’s what I’ve told the old man—my 
father—and though I’m his only hopeful (or hope¬ 
less !) he lets me go. I meant to see you somehow 
before training. But I never get you alone for five 


92 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

minutes in the house. Let’s have a stroll by the 
river.” 

She turned, and walked slowly beside him, 
through a swing gate and along a little side path 
just wide enough for two, which meandered across 
a wide field to the water’s edge. It was full autumn 
—indeed verging on winter,—the trees were almost 
leafless and a chill wind blew through their branches. 
: The river, so full of charm in the sunshine, had a 
dull glassy glare of cold grey on its surface and a 
tiny shiver ran through the veins of the Sentimen¬ 
talist as she looked around her at the dreariness of 
the landscape which had been so fair and sunshiny 
in the spring. 

“I hear you’ve been working at the V.A.D.,” he 
said, then, “Don’t you tire yourself! I won’t have 
it!” 

She smiled, but the tears were very near her 
eyes. 

“Won’t you 4 ?” 

“No, I won’t,” he repeated, emphatically. 
“Where’s that old Philosopher of yours 4 ?” 

“Oh, he’s at home, working at the dictionaries 
with Dad, as usual. He likes being here—you see 
it’s not very nice in London just now.” 

“It’s never nice in my opinion,” replied Jack. 
“But if you mean air-raids and that sort of thing 
I rather like them! I think it’s what London wants. 
I shouldn’t mind if the whole place were bombed 
to smithereens!” 

“Jack!” 

He laughed at her horrified tone. 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 93 


“Dear little ‘rose-lady,’ you mustn’t be cross with 
me! You don’t know London—I do! It’s a reg¬ 
ular muck-heap—wants clearing badly. And 
cleared it will have to be before this war finishes. 
If it hadn’t been for muck-heap London, and muck- 
heap Berlin and other big cities like them, full of 
filth we should have had no war, at all. That’s 
so!” 

He spoke with a kind of repressed passion—she 
looked up at him wonderingly and timidly. He 
met her sweet eyes, and his stern young face re¬ 
laxed. 

"Yes, dear!” he said. "It’s wickedness that has 
brought the war on us—wickedness in men, wicked¬ 
ness in women. The Supreme Being is tired of look¬ 
ing at the muck-heaps. He wants a clean world. 
And we’ve all got to help Him clean it!—with our 
blood and our lives!” 

Timidly she put out her hand and touched his. 
He caught it and held it in a warm, kind grasp. 

"I shan’t be sent out to France yet,” he went 
on. "I’ve got to be drilled into shape. And I mean 
to see you as often as I can before I go. Do you 
mind*?” 

"Mind? Why, of course not! I shall want to 
see you as much as you want to see me I" 

Jack smiled. 

"Oh, no, you won’t!” he said. "Though it’s nice 
of you to say it. But you can 9 1 really!—because 
you see I’m in love with you, and you’re not in love 
with me!’ 

She drooped her head. 


94 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“I’m not in love with any one,” she murmured. 
“I don’t know how it is—” 

“I know!” and Jack nodded his head sagaciously: 
“You can’t make up your mind as to whether a 
man’s company for life would be possible of en¬ 
durance! I don’t blame you for the doubt—not a 
bit! But, if you are hesitating I can tell you you’d 
have a cheerier time of it with me than with your 
crusty old Philosopher!” 

She laughed. 

“Oh, Jack! I never think of the Philosopher that 
way! I wouldn’t marry him for all the world!” 

“Well, that’s a comfort,” and Jack drew a long 
breath of relief. “That’s a real balm in Gilead! 
But he’ll want to marry you , you take my word for 
it! And when I’m gone he’ll have a clear field!” 

She raised her eyes rather reproachfully. 

“Then you don’t believe me?” 

“Yes, I do—of course I do!” and Jack pressed 
hard the little hand he held. “But I’ve got a bit 
of imagination, fool though I am! I see a thousand 
possibilities—your Dad may die—and then you’ll 
be all alone—and Mr. Philosopher will step in to 
'protect and console the only child of his dear dead 
friend!’—ugh!—I can hear him saying it!—and I 
shall be the Lord knows where!—and you—you 
are such a dainty little 'rose-lady’ with such docile, 
obedient ways—” 

She flashed a sudden look at him. 

“You don’t know me well enough!” she said. 
“I’ve got a will of my own!” 

“Have you?” and Jack smiled indulgently. 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 95 

“Well! I hope you have! And that you’ll say 
‘No’ very firmly when Mr. Philosopher comes round 
after you and your fortune—there!—don’t look so 
surprised!—I heard him say he knew your father 
would leave you a big fortune!” 

“Me?” and the astonishment was openly genu¬ 
ine. “Oh, Jack, you must be dreaming! Dad isn’t 
rich at all—he always tells me he has the greatest 
difficulty to make both ends meet!” 

Jack laughed joyously. 

“Jolly old dodger!” he said, irreverently. “But 
never mind! I daresay he’s right!—he’s like my 
father who swears he’s obliged to live down here 
in the country with one manservant to look after 
him in his fishing cottage by the river, because he 
can’t afford to live anywhere else! And yet I’ve 
heard—but after all it’s only silly rumour.” 

“What is?” she enquired. 

“Why, I’ve heard he’s as rich as Croesus—but I’m 
sure it can’t be true, for ever since my mother died 
when I was a little chap of ten, we’ve always been 
pretty hard up.” 

“But you went to college?” she said. “And you 
travelled abroad with a ‘crack’ tutor?” 

“Oh, yes!—all that! Nothing grudged so far 
as my training has gone. But no superfluous cash 
about. And now I shan’t want anything from any¬ 
body once I’m in the Army. I shall be clothed and 
fed and have my pay for pocket-money! Jolly! 
Don’t you congratulate me?” 

She looked full at him, frankly and sweetly. 

“Yes, I do congratulate you!” she said. “I con- 



96 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

gratulate you on the right spirit you show, to vol¬ 
untarily offer yourself to fight in the great Cause! 
Personally I hate the very thought of War,—it 
seems to me criminal, barbarous and a kind of God’s 
curse on the world—but if the battle is for good 
then all good men should join in it. I shall miss 
you dreadfully—” 

She broke off—and a soft dew filled her pretty 
eyes. Jack saw,—and his heart gave a quick bound. 
He raised the little hand that rested so contentedly 
in his own and kissed it with the utmost tenderness. 

“That’s enough for me!” he said. “ T fear no 
foe in shining armour!’ But do take care of your¬ 
self! Don’t muck about with the V.A.D. Hospital 
under the orders of that virulent old dowager who 
has made herself ‘commandant’! If you must do 
that sort of thing, why not train for a real Army 
nurse 4 ?” 

“I must not leave Dad,” she said simply. “He 
has only me.” 

“And the Philosopher!” added Jack. “And the 
Deterioration of Language Invariably Perceived!” 

They both laughed merrily, and the conversation 
became lighter and more playful. Before they 
parted the Sentimentalist had given him her promise 
that she would not become engaged to any one with¬ 
out giving Jack fair warning of his impending doom. 
And that in the meantime she would write to him 
once a week wherever he might happen to be, and 
would think of him often and kindly. 

“And when you say your prayers,” he pleaded, 
gently, “don’t leave me out!” 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 97 


“Why, Jack! Of course not!” 

He looked meditative. 

“I know a fat Scotchwoman,” he said, “who 
makes it a rule to put people into her prayers when 
they please her , and to take them out again when 
they don’t! Her husband was taken ill at a friend’s 
house and couldn’t be moved, and the friend nursed 
him tenderly, sent for a specialist and paid him fifty 
guineas out of her own pocket, besides spending no 
end of money on invalid food and luxuries,—and 
after the husband was cured and returned home, 
this same fat Scotchwoman had a slight difference 
with this very same loyal and devoted friend and 
promptly left her name out of her prayers! There’s 
heavenly thoughts for you! I always think she got 
up a grudge because her husband was cured! He 
was a gruff old customer, and rather a drawback 
to ‘home, sweet home.’ But that’s a true story!” 

“Let’s hope it’s an exceptional one!” and she 
smiled. “No ‘slight difference’ could make me leave 
you out of my prayers!” 

“Bless you, dear little rose lady!” he said, 
fervently. “These are not King Arthur times or 
I should ask you for a glove or a ribbon to wear 
in my ‘helmet’ though it’s only a khaki cap— 
but—” 

“Will you have thisand unfastening a small 
brooch in the shape of a heart, where it held a chain 
in place round her neck, she gave it to him. “It’s 
quite small—you can tuck it in under the band and 
no one will ever see it—” 

He was almost speechless with delight. Taking 



98 LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

the little gold trifle he at once fastened it in his 
cap, secretly and securely. 

“My ‘mascot’!” he said, triumphantly. “It will 
mean—ah!—you don’t know what it will mean to 
me! Everything in life!” 

“Sentimental Jack!” and she smiled. “The 
Philosopher calls me ‘sentimental’—but you are 
more so than I!” 

“Never mind what the Philosopher calls you,” 
responded Jack. “Just think for a moment if you 
please of what I call you—the dearest, sweetest 
‘rose’ lady in the world!” 

A lovely colour suffused her fair face—a true 
“rose” blush,—but she passed over the endearing 
compliment with a light gesture of dissent, and as 
they had unconsciously walked further along the 
bank of the river than they had at first intended, 
they turned and retraced their'steps back to the open 
road. Here they shook hands and parted. 

“You’ll hear from me very soon!” said Jack as 
he went, and he lifted his cap and waved it in light 
adieu. 

She watched his agile figure swinging along till 
it disappeared,—then walking rather slowly herself, 
entered her own, home in thoughtful mood. On the 
threshold she met the Philosopher. His face wore a 
grim and saturnine expression. 

“Well!” and the exclamation sounded something 
like a snort. “Have you done playing with wounded 
soldiers for to-day 4 ?” 

She looked him full in the eyes. 

“Yes,” she replied. He was rather taken aback. 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 99 

He had not expected so simple an affirmative. She 
moved on to pass him by. 

“Wait a moment, 5 ’ he said. “Do you think you 
are really useful at that V.A.D. place?” 

“I try to be,” she answered. “None of us can 
do very much in cases of great suffering, but every 
little helps.” 

“Delightful platitudes!” and the Philosopher 
gave another snort. “Personally, I think you are 
much more useful at home. Your father is not 
very well this afternoon and has been asking for 
you. I left him on the sofa in the library. He seems 
very irritable. I’m going for a walk.” 

He strolled off, pausing a moment or two to light 
his pipe, and she hurried to the library where she 
found her father on the sofa as the Philosopher had 
said, in a state of highly nervous irritation brought 
on by the gout. 

“Where have you been?” he wailed, as he saw 
her. “Down at that d—d hospital again? God 
bless my soul, what sort of a daughter are you to 
neglect your poor old father for those miserable 
Tommies! All ne’er-do-wells I’ll swear!—they 
would have been 'on the road’ picking and stealing 
and up to all sorts of mischief if they hadn’t gone 
into the Army! And now you must dance attend¬ 
ance on them as if they were your own flesh and 
blood—” Here he broke off with a sharp cry, wrung 
from him by a twinge in his gouty toe. 

“Poor Dad, I didffit know you weren’t feeling 
well,” she said, tenderly. “If I had I wouldn’t have 
gone—you know I wouldn’t! But there’s nothing 


100 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

to be done for the gout, dear, is there ?—you must 
rest—and have the medicine the doctor ordered—” 

“I don’t know where it is,” he growled. “The 
bottle has been carefully put where it can’t be 
found!” 

She smiled, with a gently breathed, “Oh, no, it 
hasn’t!” and opening a cupboard by the fireplace, 
produced the desired palliative. He watched her 
pour the measured dose into a wine-glass, and took it 
with a puckered face like a naughty child. 

“Horrid stuff!” he said, peevishly. “How do 
your Tommies take their medicine^” 

She laughed. 

“Quite nicely!—like good little boys!” she an¬ 
swered. “And they are so cheerful and patient! 
Some of the very bad cases are the most enduring. 
Oh!—if you could only see one poor fellow—” 

“I don’t want to see him!” growled her father. 
“And I don’t want to hear about him! I’m worried 
out of my life by stories of these ‘poor fellows’ who 
make the ‘supreme sacrifice’ for their country,—hang 
it all! the ‘supreme sacrifice’ has got to be made by 
all of us some day anyhow—and the men who make 
it before their naturally allotted span would no 
doubt have wasted their lives in idleness and drink!” 

Her eyes filled with a gentle reproach. 

“Oh, dear Dad!—you talk like the Philosopher! 
Don’t get as callous as he is!” 

“He’s not callous,” snapped out the old gentle¬ 
man. “And you’re a silly little flibbertigibbet! 
Callous indeed! Why he’s full of feeling! He’s 


(( » 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 101 


not sentimental—and a good job too!—but he’s 
reasonable and—and kind.” 

“If he’s kind to you , that’s enough!” she said, 
smiling. “But I don’t think he pays much attention 
to the war, and he never realises the awful sufferings 
of the men who are fighting for us—” 

“Why should he 4 ? God bless my soul! Why 
should a learned and brilliant scholar bother to 
"realise’ what these fighting fools are about 4 ? He’s 
got something else to do—” 

“The Dictionary!” she hinted, smiling. 

“Well, that’s one thing certainly. And I tell 
you what—ah!—you may look surprised!—but if 
my ideas were carried out, and language—language, 
I say!—preserved in refined forms, and no news¬ 
paper slang allowed, there would be no wars!— 
there couldn't be!” 

The smile was still on her lips. 

“Dear Dad, I daresay you are quite right!” she 
said. “But I’m afraid it’s too late now to preserve 
what is lost. Elegant speech and graceful manners 
are very rare.” 

“Glad you know it!” and her father made an¬ 
other grimace as his burning toe asserted its existence 
afresh. “You’ll appreciate my work when you see 
it!” 

“I’m sure I shall!” She hesitated,—then added 
irrelevantly: 

“Jack has joined up.” 

“Best thing he could do! He was always idling 
about, with no aim in life as far as I could see— 


102 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

one of those stupid young men who want licking into 
shape!” 

She made no reply. Moving quietly about the 
room she put things tidy and stirred the fire into a 
more cheerful blaze—then, seeing her father had 
closed his eyes in preparation for a doze she slipped 
away. In the outer hall she met the parlour-maid, 
—generally a trim, tidy little body, but now with 
roughened hair and swollen eyes, crying bitterly. 

“Why, Annie! What’s the matter?” 

The girl gave a great sob. 

“My only brother, miss—he’s killed!” 

Killed! The word sounded butcher-like. 

“Killed! How awful! Oh, you poor girl! I’m 
so sorry for you!” 

Annie turned away her face and went, still weep¬ 
ing,—comfort there is none in sudden bereavement, 
and to offer it is only intrusive. The gentle little 
Sentimentalist felt this to the very core of her re¬ 
sponsive soul,—and her usually light step was slow’ 
and sad as she entered her own special little sitting- 
room and looked out on the smooth lawn and the 
flower-beds encircling it, brilliant just now with 
goldenrod, dahlias, dwarf sunflowers and other 
glories of autumnal bloom. 

“I’m not in love with him a bit!” she murmured 
to the silence. “But . . . yes!—I’m sure I should 
almost break my heart if Jack were killed!” 


CHAPTER VII 


TT7TNTER closed in with a drizzling damp at- 
mosphere far more trying to both body and 
mind than frost and snow, and though the country 
in November is seldom exhilarating except to fox- 
hunters and others whose physical activities keep 
them always “on the go”—the Philosopher found it 
more agreeable to spend his time in a comfortable 
old manor house which was kept warm and cosy, 
than to wander between a London flat and his club 
in a daily routine walk through the same streets at 
more or less the same hour. So that when his host 
urged him to stay “a week or two longer” he was 
not loth to accept the extended invitation; and if 
any twinge of shame pricked his conscience at the 
barefaced manner in which he allowed himself to be 
lodged and fed at other folks’ expense, he salved it 
with the inward assurance that after all was said and 
done, the old gentleman was gouty and ailing and 
that a companion of his own sex was a good thing 
for him. 

“And I am a unique person,” he said to himself. 

“I have humour and originality—both qualities are 

worth more than gold. I make no charge for my 

jokes—I ask no fee for being amusing, though I 

really ought to do so. In the dulness created by 

average brains I am a kind of luminary; and if I 

103 


10 4 } LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

stay on here—avoiding the November fogs in Lon¬ 
don—I give as much as I take—in fact more,—for 
if they feed me materially I feed them intellec¬ 
tually !” 

Truth to tell the Philosopher was pre-eminently 
known as what is called a “sponge.” From his boy¬ 
hood up he had always been paid for by other 
people. Why this was so no one could tell. But 
so it was. He was not a bread-winner. He had 
written a few books—books that resembled ancient 
Brazil nuts, very hard to open, and very dried-up 
inside—books that he wrote entirely for his own 
satisfaction, though for nobody else’s pleasure. 
Naturally the books did not sell,—but according to 
his view and that of many other unsuccessful dab¬ 
blers in literature, that only proved their brilliancy 
and excellence. The oft-quoted and worn-out 
phrase, “The public is a hass,” expressed his opinion 
of that great majority whose approval every man of 
note, whether in literature or politics, is eager to 
win while openly denying its value,—and on one 
occasion when an old college friend remarked: 

“Nobody knows you ever wrote anything and 
nobody cares!” he accepted the crushing statement 
with a bland smile and nod of acquiescence. 

“Do I expect any one to know or to care 4 ?” he 
demanded. “Do I ask for the undiscriminating ap¬ 
plause of the vulgar 4 ? Do I write stories about silly 
young women who fall in love with their guardians, 
and then when they are married, elope with actors 
and stable-men? Do I take up the rag remains of 
the 4 sex question’ and tear it into fresh shreds? No! 



LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 105 

Then how is it possible the man or woman 4 in the 
street' should appreciate me? As well ask them to 
appreciate the Elgin marbles or the Parthenon! I 
assure you I am perfectly satisfied to be as I am— 
unknown and uncared for.” 

The college friend looked sceptical. 

“Then what’s the use of writing anything 4 ?” he 
asked. “And when you come to that, what’s the use 
of living 4 ?” 

“Really, my dear fellow, you are very simple!” 
said the Philosopher. “Pathetically so! There is 
of course no use in living. But, unhappily, we have 
no choice in the matter. We are born,—without 
our own specific consent—and we die—in the same 
attitude of non-volition. Apparently we come into 
life for the purpose of propagating our kind—to no 
special end. Those who decline to propagate human 
units are considered ridiculous—even if they propa¬ 
gate thoughts,—through literature, painting or 
music,—the world does not want literature, music 
or painting so much as it wants squalling, guzzling 
babies who will grow up into squalling, guzzling 
men and women—most of them having no aim in 
life except to squall and guzzle. I have chosen a 
path for myself out of the squall and guzzle track 
—I live my own life of studious contemplation, and 
though I fully recognise its uselessness in common 
with the general futility of things, I manage to en¬ 
dure existence comfortably.” 

His friend looked at him,—and was about to say, 
“At other people’s expense!” but checked the re¬ 
mark in time. 





106 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“You don’t—er—you don’t—er seem to care 
about any one?” he hinted, hesitatingly. 

The Philosopher elevated his grizzled eyebrows 
ironically. 

“Care?” he echoed. “Care about any one? . . . 
Surely a cryptic utterance!” 

“I mean”—pursued the other man—“you’ve no 
woman—” 

“Woman!” The Philosopher laughed. “My 
good fellow, what do you take me for! Woman? 
Women? As well ask me if I keep midges for 
amusement! No, no! I’ve ‘no woman’ as you 
rather clumsily put it—I might marry—it is pos¬ 
sible—” 

“Oh, really? You might?” 

“Money—and good looks together might per¬ 
suade me,” resumed the Philosopher judiciously. 
“But I should endeavor to make myself very sure 
that my own special manners and customs would not 
be interfered with by the procedure. The first aim 
of life—considering its farcical ineptitude—should 
be personal comfort,—anything that interfered with 
that should be rigorously avoided.” 

The friend went his way, lost in amazement at 
what he styled “the old chap’s d—d selfishness”— 
but the Philosopher smoked a pipe enjoyingly, con¬ 
vinced that his theories were beyond all refutation 
or argument, and that so far from being selfish he 
was one of the most virtuous and magnanimous of 
men. Encased in a hide of hardened egoism, tougher 
and more leathery than that of rhinoceros or ele¬ 
phant, he was unable to perceive any faults of char- 



LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 107 


acter in himself though he was keen to mark and 
to satirize the smallest flaw in the conduct of other 
people. 

While he lingered on in the country, “sponging” 
on his host, he took it into his head to assume a 
benevolence and kindness towards his host’s daugh¬ 
ter, which, in her rather solitary way of life, greatly 
appealed to her over-sensitive nature. He could be 
an attractive personality when he chose,—he had an 
agreeable voice, a pleasant smile, and a coaxing 
manner,—and when all three were “in play” to¬ 
gether, it was difficult not to be deceived into think¬ 
ing him an exceptionally charming man. There 
was no doubt of his intellectuality; he was eminent 
in knowledge of a varied kind,—he had read widely 
and he was a good raconteur. Yet one got to the 
end of his stories in time, and he was apt to repeat 
them too often. He had known and still knew 
many “famous” people,—both in literary and politi¬ 
cal circles, and he could tell many amusing inci¬ 
dents in connection with them,—yet even of these 
incidents one got tired after hearing them for the 
twentieth time. What took the savour out of 
them was that he always rounded them up by some 
unkind reflection as to the stupidity of that person, 
the dulness of t’other, for in his whole list of ac¬ 
quaintance there certainly was not one who came 
off unscathed by his sarcasm or his ridicule. 

The Sentimentalist thought of this often, and 
argued, sensibly enough, that what he said of any 
one man or woman he was likely to say of any other, 
so that a certain sense of uneasiness began to under- 


108 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

mine all her talks with him. With a touch of self- 
humiliation she felt she was “not clever enough” 
to converse with him in the style he approved. As 
a matter of fact, she was too clever,—because she 
had that sure feminine instinct which discovers insin¬ 
cerity before it positively declares itself. And grad¬ 
ually, very gradually, she withdrew the frankness 
of her nature, curling it up as it were like the 
leaves of the “sensitive plant” at his touch,—and 
he, slow to perceive this repulsion, or rather, too 
self-complacent to think such repulsion was possi¬ 
ble, became more and more patronising and “su¬ 
perior,” treating her for the most part as a pleasing 
but foolish child, easily swayed by passing emo¬ 
tions, and therefore capable of being “caught” by 
even the simulation of affection if the “counterfeit¬ 
ing” were well done. 

“And so”—said he, one chilly afternoon when a 
bitter east wind blew suggestions of snow through 
the air—“your Jack is in khaki?” 

She was sewing busily, and looked up from her 
work with eyes that flashed warningly. 

“He is not ‘my’ Jack,” she replied, coldly. “I 
have told you that before.” 

“Well, he is somebody’s Jack,” persisted the 
Philosopher, stretching out his legs comfortably be¬ 
fore the fire. “I suppose you’ll agree to that. May 
I warm my feet?” 

Without waiting for an answer he drew up his 
chair close to the fender, and slipping off his shoes, 
extended his woollen-socked feet towards the blaze. 
This sort of self-coddling was one of his “little 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 109 


ways”—those “little ways” of blunt familiarity 
which distinguish the truly “great” who make free 
with their friends 7 houses. She glanced at him 
with just the smallest quiver of contempt on the 
usually sweet lines of her mouth, and went on 
sewing. 

“This is a kind of domestic bliss!” he said, airily. 
“If you ever marry, your husband will warm his feet 
like this!” 

She was silent. 

“But I really don’t think,” he went on, “that 
marriage would suit you. I doubt if you would keep 
a husband six months!” 

She stopped the flash of her needle through her 
work. 

“I should not 'keep’ a husband six days!” she 
said, quietly. “I should expect him to keep him¬ 
self !—and me!” 

“So like a woman to twist a meaning out of what 
was never meant!” retorted the Philosopher. “Your 
mind, being feminine, at once seizes on the wrong 
view of the subject. My suggestion was that, be¬ 
ing full of sentiment, you would expect sentiment 
in a husband. You would not find it—you would 
be disappointed,—or 'wounded’—I think 'wounded’ 
is the favourite expression women use in regard to 
their feelings,—you would consider him a brute, and 
he would consider you a bore—and it would be all 
over!” 

She nodded, resuming her sewing. 

“Yes,” she agreed. “It would be all over.” 

Her swift acquiescence irritated him. 



110 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 


“I’m glad you have the sense to see it— 55 he 
began, in a raspy voice. 

“Why, of course!” she interrupted him, with a 
light laugh. “If I considered him a brute and he 
considered me a bore, we should have nothing in 
common, and we should separate and go our differ¬ 
ent ways.” 

“Oh, that’s how you’d settle it!” and the Philoso¬ 
pher gave a dubious grunt. “But, if you had a hus¬ 
band, he would be your master, and any arrange¬ 
ment of that kind would have to be made to suit 
him , and not you!” 

“Yes?” and the pretty uplift of her eyebrows em¬ 
phasized the question. “Thank goodness I haven’t a 
husband yet!—and if your ideas of marriage are 
likely to be true I hope I never shall have one!” 

“You see,” said the Philosopher, folding his arms 
and hugging himself comfortably, “you are a little 
person who cannot bear to be contradicted, and a 
husband would probably contradict you twenty or 
fifty times a day. His opinions would always differ 
from yours. The man’s point of view is entirely 
the reverse of the woman’s. A man’s idea of love—” 
He paused. 

“It is difficult to explain, isn’t it?” she queried, 
sweetly. “I’m afraid you couldn’t put it nicely!” 

“Put it nicely?” he echoed. “What do you 
mean? Put it nicely?” 

“Well, I’m afraid I couldn’t put it nicely my¬ 
self,” she said, demurely, “because—you see—some¬ 
times a man’s idea of love isn’t nice!” 

He unfolded his arms and stared at her. 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 111 


“Isn’t nice!” he repeated. “What is it then 4 ? 
Nasty?” 

She laughed. 

“Perhaps! Anyway it’s nearly always selfish!” 

“Oh, that’s the way you look at it, is it? And 
is not woman’s idea of love quite as selfish?” 

“I think not,” she answered, quietly. “Women 
have to give all,—men are free to take all.” 

He was, for the moment, silent. It dawned upon 
him that the Sentimentalist was not “a Plum,”—a 
Plum to fall into his mouth with a bang. She might 
be ripe,—but she was not ready. With elaborate 
slowness he withdrew his socked feet from the fender 
and slipped them into his ungainly shoes. 

“Very well,—it comes to this,” he said, resignedly, 
“Women are always right, and men always wrong— 
in a woman’s opinion. As I have already remarked, 
you cannot bear to be contradicted.” 

She looked at him with eyes dancing merrily like 
sparkles of light. 

“Oh—h-h!” and she held up a small reproachful 
finger. “Who is contradicting anybody? There’s 
nothing to contradict! We were having just a little 
friendly argument which started on your last piece 
of rudeness.” 

“Rudeness?” he exclaimed. “When and how 
have I been rude?” 

“Don’t you think it was very rude to say that 
you doubted whether I would keep a husband six 
months?” 

“Nothing rude about it,” he declared, airily. “It 
was a frank statement.” 


112 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“Suppose I made a Trank statement’ about you?” 
she suggested. “Do you think you would care to 
hear it 4 ?” 

“It depends entirely on the nature of the state¬ 
ment,” he replied. “I should decline to listen to any¬ 
thing incorrect.” 

Her light laugh rang out sweetly. 

“Anything incorrect means anything against your 
own ideas,” she said. “I see! Well, I won’t be as 
Tude’ as to make any statement at all about you, to 
your face! One should never be personal.” 

„ She resumed her sewing, and he walked slowly to 
the window, looked out at the leafless branches of 
the trees swaying in the wind, and then walked as 
slowly back again. 

“I suppose you do think of getting married some 
day?” he queried. 

“Oh, dear me! Haven’t I just said one should 
never be personal?” she rejoined, smiling. “No,—I 
can’t say I have ever thought about it!” 

He bent his eyes down upon her. 

“ 'Gather ye roses while ye may,’ ” he quoted 
sententiously. “'Old Time is still a-flying!’” 

“Is a husband a rose?” she asked, merrily. 

He wrinkled his fuzzy brows. 

“Well, perhaps not altogether. He might be the 
useful cabbage or potato in the soup. In any case 
for a woman, a man’s protection is necessary.” 

“But does he protect? Doesn’t he often desert?” 

“In the annals of the gutter press he does,—I 
grant you that. Life, however, is something more 
than cheap sensationalism.” 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 113 

‘Tm glad to hear you say that!” and she raised 
her eyes, blue as blue cornflowers, full of a lovely 
earnestness. “Life is such a beautiful, holy thing! 
—and one feels such a desire to make it always more 
beautiful and more holy!” 

The Philosopher got up one of his ugly noisy 
coughs. The Sentimentalist was becoming transcen¬ 
dental. He felt he must bring her down from the 
rainbow empyrean. 

“There’s nothing beautiful or holy about it,” he 
grunted. “Life is life—two and two are four. A 
man is a man; a brute is a brute. Nature cannot be 
altered. If a woman’s unlucky enough to marry 
a brute instead of a man, she gets brutal treatment. 
Quite her own fault!—she should have known 
better!” 

“But how is one to find out the difference between 
a man and a brute?” asked the Sentimentalist with 
an innocent air of enquiry. 

He smiled—almost he laughed. 

“Not bad!” he said. “I give you that! Not bad 
at all—for a woman!” 

He walked up and down the room again, and 
finally resorting to his pipe, lit it. 

“All the same,” he presently resumed, “even if 
your powers of perception failed to discern the brute 
in the man or the man in the brute, you ought to 
marry.” 

“Really! You think so?” And she looked up 
from her sewing with a little mutinous air. 

“Certainly I think so. An unmarried woman is a 
target for scandal—unless she is very old and very 


114 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

plain—and even then she doesn’t always escape. 
You,—having a fair amount of good looks, should 
marry quickly.” 

Her face brightened with sudden dimples of mirth. 

“Perhaps I might,—if I could find any one rich 
enough to suit me,” she said. 

“Rich enough!” The Philosopher was taken 
aback. It had never occurred to him that she, like 
himself, might have a fancy for the luxuries of life. 

“Rich enough!” he echoed. “Surely you have no 
mercenary taint?—no hankering after the flesh-pots 
of Egypt?” 

She laughed, and made a little dab at him in the 
air with her needle. 

“I’m not so sure!” she answered, gaily. “I like 
comfort and warmth, and flowers and pretty furni¬ 
ture—and frocks—and jewels—oh!—how shocked 
you look!” 

“I look as I feel,” said the Philosopher, puffing 
slowly at his pipe. “I thought you altogether dif¬ 
ferent,—of a finer mould than the merely frivolous 
woman—” 

“Now! How can you say that?” she demanded. 
“When only the other day you told me that I had 
a new hat on, and ought to be perfectly happy in 
consequence!” 

He looked sheepish for a moment, but soon recov¬ 
ered his assertiveness. 

“True!—and quite unconsciously I hit upon a 
fact,” he said. “For now, by your own admission, 
your tastes lead you in the direction of mere frip¬ 
pery. Frocks! Jewels! Good heavens! Two 



LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 115 


frocks a year—a simple brooch of unadorned gold, 
and a couple of plain hats, suffice for any reasonable 
woman whose thoughts are trained and fixed—” he 
paused—then repeated, “whose thoughts are trained 
and fixed—” He paused again. 

“Yes?” she queried. “Whose thoughts are trained 
and fixed?—on what?” 

“On the simple ideals of life,” he said. “On 
domestic economies—the chemistry of the kitchen— 
the various useful arts by which a woman can make 
herself indispensable to man—” 

“7 know!” And she had such a dancing sparkle of 
mirth and mischief in her blue eyes that he could 
not meet her glances. “The chief art of all is to give 
him a good dinner! Sometimes—not always—that 
is why a man gets married—that he may have a cook- 
housekeeper on the premises!” She laughed merrily, 
—the Philosopher surveyed her with a kind of ironic 
compassion. 

“You think that funny!” he observed. “But it 
isn’t! Your worldly wisdom is by no means pro¬ 
found—” 

“Of course it isn’t!” she agreed. “It’s shallow— 
shallow as a running brook!—but quite pleasant! I 
should hate to be profound,—and—stagnant! And 
if I ever do get married, I shall try to marry a rich 
man, who would be kind to me and take pleasure in 
giving me all sorts of lovely things—and I should 
not be mercenary, only I should like him to do things 
for me , and not want me to wait upon him! I think 
it such a pity that our men always expect to be at¬ 
tended to first! Americans are quite different!— 



* 


116 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

they always look after women in such a courteous, 
friendly way! After all, kindness is the true chiv- 
a&y.”$ 

He dropped lazily into an armchair and began his 
favourite pastime of puffing smoke-rings into the air, 
with the usual ugly distortions of face which accom¬ 
panied that effort. 

“You are quite eloquent! 5 ’ he observed, sardoni¬ 
cally. “I notice you have a special predilection for 
Americans. Why, I can’t imagine! Perhaps you 
are looking out for an American millionaire T’ 

She nodded her fair little head mischievously. 

“Perhaps!” she replied. 

The Philosopher made a particularly hideous O of 
his unbeautiful mouth at that moment, as he dis¬ 
charged a well-nigh perfect smoke-ring from its 
cavity. 

“The noble and high-minded Jack scarcely an¬ 
swers to your requirements,” he said. 

“No, poor fellow!” and she smiled. “I believe 
he has always been more or less hard up. His father 
put him into some great engineering works, but of 
course he had to pay to be taken at all —he was not 
paid. But he learned everything he could. Now 
he’s quite pleased he’s joined the Army—you see he’s 
paid there !—and has his food and clothes as well— 
so he’s happy and satisfied.” 

“Fortunate youth!” said the Philosopher, yawn¬ 
ing. “And doubly fortunate to have secured so much 
interest in his doings as you bestow upon him!” 

She was silent. 

The Philosopher continued making smoke-rings 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 117 


and she wished he would leave off. It was un¬ 
reasonable of her to feel irritated with him, and yet 
she could not help it. He, on his part, was conscious 
of having come up against an obstacle in his mental 
plans of conquest,—a soft obstacle, something like a 
sand-bag in the path of a bullet. On that particular 
winter afternoon he had purposed “making a dash 
for it” as he had said to himself, and risking an at¬ 
tempt at love-making. He had thought of various 
ways of doing it, more or less approved. It was a 
cold, bleak day—a day that was enough to make 
gentle ladies shiver and draw near the fire,—if she 
had drawn near, he would have essayed—yes, he 
thought he would have essayed slipping an arm 
round her waist as he had done on that occasion 
when he had pricked or (as he would have expressed 
it), “lacerated” his hand among the rose-bushes, and 
she had “kissed the place and made it well.” Yes, 
she had actually done that! And now, little by 
little, a curious, imperceptible shadow had arisen 
like a dividing wall, so that she appeared to be on 
one side and he on the other, and he felt by a strange, 
almost sullen instinct that were he to “lacerate” his 
hand ever so severely, he would not be favoured by 
the light, soft touch of those rosy lips again. Now, 
what mood possessed her, he wondered*? What fan¬ 
tastic feminine vagary had made her thus capricious? 
Wrapped in a thick hide of intellectual egotism the 
Philosopher could not see that he was in any sense 
to blame. 

Had any one ventured to tell him that his in¬ 
grained selfishness and utter indifference to the feel- 


118 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

ings of any other human entity than his own, had 
profoundly affected the Sentimentalist and moved 
her to reluctant aversion, tempered with pity, he 
would have been virtuously indignant. For he had 
his own peculiar methods of estimating his own con¬ 
duct. 

“I! I, selfish!” he would have exclaimed. “I, 
who am always trying to amuse and please every¬ 
body! I give up my own wishes constantly in order 
to suit other people! I am a perpetual entertain¬ 
ment to my friends when they are too dull-witted 
to entertain themselves! I am really one of the most 
unselfish and good-natured of men! I never ‘bore’ 
anybody!” 

And he would have argued that to stay on week 
after week in an extremely comfortable country 
house with all his food provided, was really a mag¬ 
nanimous condescension on his part, inasmuch as he 
was assisting a very irritable old gentleman to pursue 
literary work which interested him, and at the same 
time impressing by his various qualifications a very 
romantic and idealistic little lady who, unfortunately 
for herself, had an idea that all clever men must be 
worth knowing. 

Yes,—when he had “lacerated” his hand among 
the roses, her manner towards him had been charm¬ 
ingly different from what it was now. She was then 
still under the glamour and delusion of his reported 
renown as a learned and brilliant personality. She 
looked at him with timid interest; she listened to 
him with a pretty reverence. But now her blue eyes 
studied him with a critical coolness,—and though she 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 119 


still listened to his talk, she was not, as before, ear¬ 
nestly attentive. Nothing seemed so impossible as 
to put his arm round her waist now ,—and yet that 
was exactly what he had hoped to do on this winter’s 
afternoon by the fire. He took refuge in a few 
banalities. Heaving a deep sigh, he said suddenly: 

“You are not as kind to me as you used to be! 
In fact you are cold!” 

She smiled. 

“It is cold!” she answered. 

Here was a sort of five-barred gate, over which 
the ambling mule of the Philosopher’s philosophy 
could not easily jump. He thought a moment. 

“Have I been so unfortunate as to displease you*?” 
he asked, in his gentlest tone. 

She was quite startled at the question and her sew¬ 
ing dropped from her hands. 

“Displease me? Oh, no!—pray do not think such 
a thing! I am so sorry if I give you such an idea— 
you must not imagine—” 

He watched her as he would have watched a but¬ 
terfly writhing on a pin. 

“I do not imagine,” he said. “Imagination is a 
kind of hysteria. I know there is something on your 
mind against me. Surely I may know what it is?” 

She hesitated a moment,—then raised her eyes, 
blue and steady in their wistful, half-tender expres¬ 
sion. 

“It is nothing against you,” she said, quietly. “It 
is only sorrow that you who have lived so long and 
seen so much, and studied such deep and clever 
things, should be so hard and unfeeling for poor 


120 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

humanity. You show such indifference to the suffer¬ 
ings of the men in this terrible war—you never seem 
to consider the heart-break and agony of the women 
left at home—the mothers, the wives, the sweet¬ 
hearts—and so—you see”—she paused, with a slight 
tremble in her voice—“I am disappointed, because 
when I heard you were considered a very great man 
in your own line of learning, I thought you would 
probably be great in other things as well.” 

He looked at her in a kind of quizzical amuse¬ 
ment. 

“Dear child, that does not follow by any means!” 
he said. “Most unfortunately for yourself you are 
an idealist, which means that you put your own 
mind’s colour on a world’s common grey canvas. 
When the colour comes off and the dull grey is 
seen, you are disappointed, and you feel you will 
not try putting on the same tint again. I’m afraid 
your life will be a repetition of this tiresome ex¬ 
perience ! And I’m sorry—yes, very sorry, you have 
attempted to idealise me , for I couldn’t live up 
to it!” 

He rose from his chair and stood with his back 
to the fire, pipe in hand. 

“You find me indifferent to the war,” he went on. 
“I am. I freely confess it. The war is a result of 
arrogance and stupidity—two human defects for 
which I have unbounded contempt. The war also 
exhibits in the most glaring manner the sheep-like 
tendency of men—they follow where they are led 
without seeking to know the reason why. If every 
male creature in every country flatly refused to be a 



LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 121 

soldier, tyrants and governments would be at a loss 
for material wherewith to fall upon each other— 
they could not coerce a whole world that had once 
made up its mind. It is because there is no strength 
of will in the blind majority that war is allowed still 
to exist—and you are right—I have no sympathy 
with it. To me the ‘roll of honour’ is all bunkum! 
—and I have no patience with people who smirk 
their thanks for a medal from the king in exchange 
for the life of a slaughtered man. Pooh! Talk 
of the car of the Juggernaut! The abbatoir in 
Flanders is a thousand times worse, because we are 
supposed to be a civilised, not a savage, people, 
though to my notion we are more savage than the 
primal men who broke each other’s skulls with stone 
hatchets. I can see no improvement—we are the 
same old blood-thirsty, greedy race!” 

He spoke with a fervour that was almost elo¬ 
quence, and knocking the ashes of his pipe out, he 
placed it on the mantel-shelf. Then bending his 
eyes on the Sentimentalist, he smiled. 

“There! Now you know!” he said. “I am per¬ 
fectly indifferent to the war. I don’t care how many 
fools kill each other! I haven’t the least sympathy 
with men who go to have themselves hacked about 
and disfigured for life, or blown into atoms by shells. 
They would have shown much better sense by treat¬ 
ing the members of their stupid Governments to the 
same sort of fate.” 

“But”—and here the Sentimentalist plucked up 
courage to speak—“if we did not fight, Germany 
would dominate the world!” 




122 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“And why didn’t we see that before?” he de¬ 
manded. “Germany was dominating the world in 
every corner of trade—'peaceful penetration’ as it 
was called,—and if the stagey Kaiser hadn’t jumped 
up like a jack-in-the-box, under the demented notion 
that he was a new sort of Charlemagne she would 
have dominated it. And we should have gone on in 
our comfortable idleness and luxury, getting lazier 
and lazier, and allowing Germany to do everything 
for us, because it’s so much trouble to do anything 
for ourselves—except—play tennis and football!” 

She looked at him with a flash of indignation. 

“Then what a good thing for us that we’ve been 
shaken up out of our 'laze’!” she said. 

“Perhaps—and perhaps not,” rejoined the Phi¬ 
losopher. “I never accept things as 'good’ till they 
prove not to be entirely bad.” 

“And with all these pessimistic ideas of yours, 
are you happy?” she asked. 

“Entirely so!” And the Philosopher smiled. 
“Much happier than you are, my dear child! For 
you expect so much from everybody and every¬ 
thing!—and I expect—nothing! So I am never 
disappointed. You are!” 

“Yes, I am!” she agreed, and her sweet mouth 
trembled. “I am very greatly disappointed!” 

“And you always will be!” he said, pleasantly. 
Then reaching for his pipe, he filled it. “The wind 
seems to have abated a little—I’ll go for a walk be¬ 
fore dinner.” 

He paused an instant, wondering if he should say 
anything else?—a word of tenderness?—or endear- 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 123 


ment? No, he thought not! An arm round the 
waist was out of the question. He could whistle 
rather well, so prodding his pipe, he lighted it, and 
whistled ‘Home they brought her warrior dead/ to 
which lively accompaniment he walked out of the 
room. 

She sprang up when he had gone, indignantly 
conscious that tears were in her eyes. 

£ T think—I really do think I hate him!” she said 
to the silence. “And I used to be almost fond of 
him! Oh, he makes all life a blank for me! There 
seems nothing worth doing, nothing worth living 
for!” She paced up and down the room. “Sneer, 
—sneer!—nothing but sneer! And he’s supposed 
to be so clever! Oh, I’d rather be human !—twenty 
times rather! And yet—when he first came to stay 
with Dad he seemed so charming and kindly! I 
thought he would be such a splendid friend to have! 
—but I don’t believe he cares a rap for anybody but 
himself!” 

In this she was perfectly right. But nothing is 
so difficult to a Sentimentalist as to believe in the 
existence of an incurable Egotist. 




CHAPTER VIII 


^pWO or three days later Jack called to say 
good-bye. 

“I’m off to France this week,” he explained, “and 
I shan’t have another chance. I wanted to see you 
once more before—before crossing Channel.” 

The Sentimentalist was in her own little morning- 
room busy with the week’s household accounts. She 
pushed aside all the tradesmen’s books and bills, and 
rose from her chair. 

“Oh, Jack!” she said half whisperingly, and 
again, “Oh, Jack!” Then suddenly: “Let us go 
out in the garden! We can’t talk here!” 

She took up her hat which had been lying on a 
table near her, and threw a fleecy wool scarf over her 
shoulders. It was a brilliant day, despite the wintry 
season, and a few red leaves still clinging to the trees 
made flashes of colour against the clear grey-blue of 
the sky. 

“How’s Dad?” Jack asked, with a show of in¬ 
terest. “And ‘The Deterioration of Language In¬ 
variably Perceived’?” 

She laughed rather tremulously. “Oh, just the 
same! Dad is not very well, I’m afraid. He says 
the war worries him so.” 

“Worries him? Oh, by Jove! What has he got 
to worry about?” 


124 



LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 125 

“Nothing, really! But that’s just why he wor¬ 
ries!” 

They were now in the leafless rosery, walking side 
by side under intertwined boughs of thorns. Jack 
gave a quick comprehensive glance around him. 

“Looks rather different to what it did in sum¬ 
mer,” he said. 

The fair woman at his side looked up quickly. 

“Ah, yes!” she murmured. “Everything is 
changed!” 

“No, it isn’t!” he replied briskly. “ You’re not 
changed—and Fm not changed! You’ve got a touch 
of the ‘blues,’ dear little lady! It’s that old V.A.D. 
commandant, I bet!” 

“Oh, no! No, indeed; I don’t mind her snappy 
ways a bit! The wounded boys make up to me for 
all her tantrums!” 

“I should hope they did!” said Jack, approv¬ 
ingly. “I say! If I get wounded I’ll try and get 
sent here, and you’ll nurse me!” 

She smiled, but there was a rising of tears in her 
throat and she could not speak. Jack saw just how 
she felt, and bravely repressed his own emotion. 

“You won’t mind seeing my father now and 
then*?” he went on. “He said the other day that he 
would take it kindly if you’d look in at the cottage 
sometimes—” 

“I will, certainly!” she interrupted, eagerly. 
“But is he really going to stay down here all 
winter^” 

“I think so! He’s a queer old chap and likes his 
own way of living,” and Jack smiled. “But his 


126 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

heart’s in the right place! He said the other day, 
Td rather feed the robins here, than dine at the 
Savoy!’ That’s him all over!” 

“Is he—is he sorry you’re going 1 ?” she asked. 

“If he is, he doesn’t show it!” Here the young 
fellow laughed cheerily. “Oh, he’s game, I can 
tell you! He told me he was giving me away like 
a pound of tea!—thoughts running on the American 
war of independence, I suppose!” 

He laughed again, but she was very silent and 
serious. They had left the rosery, now the thorn- 
ery, and were walking in a thick little coppice of 
fir-trees, where occasional gleams of the near river 
shone through. On a sudden impulse he stopped, 
and taking her face between his two hands turned it 
up to him. 

“Dear little ‘rose-lady,’ ” he said, huskily, “say 
‘God bless you, Jack!’ before I go!” 

“Oh, I do say it!” she answered, sobbingly. “I 
do say it, and I pray it every night and morning! 
Jack, dear, believe me I do!” 

Somehow or other he had his arms round her,— 
he had none of the Philosopher’s doubts or hesita¬ 
tions,—and he drew her fondly to him. 

“You dear!” he whispered. “But I won’t have 
you cry! No tears!—or you’ll make a real coward 
of me! And just now I want to be a hero—for I 
think, I really do think you care for me,—just a 
little!” 

She was silent, but she put the tiniest little flutter 
of a kiss on the hand that was nearest to her lips. 
He thrilled to that caress with all the warm ardour 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 127 


of a Romeo, and releasing her from his hold, drew 
himself up with an air of joy and pride. 

“Now I’m worth twice what I was a minute 
ago!” he said. “And if I were a sneak, I should ask 
you to engage yourself to me straight away! But I 
won’t. You shall not be bound to a man who may 
be marked down by a Boche sniper before the month 
is out. No, dear! But you know I love you!—and 
you know I want to marry you!—when the war is 
over!” 

“And you’ll wait till then?” she asked, suddenly 
with the prettiest air of pique and wonder. 

He looked at her, and his heart beat quickly. 

“I’ll try to!” he answered. “Unless you tempt 
me too far!” 

Some further development of this situation might 
have occurred had not the sudden apparition of a 
misshaped “Homburg” hat and weedy-looking over¬ 
coat startled them away several paces from each 
other. 

“Don’t let me intrude!”—and the Philosopher, 
slowly approaching, spoke in the mildest and most 
mellifluous of accents—“I have been taking a stroll 
by the river,—and you—dear me, yes!—it is you!” 
Here he surveyed Jack with a kind of quizzical 
tolerance—“I should hardly have known you in 
khaki had I met you by chance anywhere else!” 

“I daresay not!” replied Jack airily. “It makes 
a fellow so much better-looking.” 

The Philosopher smiled. 

“You think so? Ah! Well,—possibly our ideas 
do not coincide. I cannot admit that mud-colour 


128 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

is becoming to any face or figure. And when are 
you off?’ 

“This week.” The reply was brief and blunt. 

The Philosopher nodded blandly. 

“So soon? And no doubt you are full of pleas¬ 
urable anticipation? When one is young and has 
nothing very important to do, the idea of killing 
Germans must be more thrilling than an invitation 
to a grouse moor!” 

The Sentimentalist looked pained and vexed—she 
was about to speak, but a glance from Jack silenced 
her. 

“Quite so!” he agreed, amicably. “Td rather kill 
Germans than grouse any day!” 

“I envy you your humane ideas!” said the Philoso¬ 
pher, smiling. “Allow me to wish you a safe jour¬ 
ney to France and all the excitement you want when 
you get there! It’s a great thing to be a defender 
of the Empire—a ve-ry great thing!—for those who 
consider the Empire worth defending! To a scholar 
and student of history, all empires are alike,—one is 
no worse and no better than the other, and the well- 
balanced man would as soon fight for Germany as 
Britain. Both are arrogant powers,—and it entirely 
depends on which sort of arrogance one prefers— 
military or commercial. But I forgot!—you are not 
British—you are American! Being so, I rather won¬ 
der you should fight at all!” 

“It is curious, isn’t it!” and Jack treated him to 
a broad smile and a glance which took in the bat¬ 
tered “Homburg” hat, the weedy coat, and the large 
boots of the learned man. “But—it amuses me!” 





LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 129 

Something in the flash of the young man’s eyes— 
a lightning gleam of boldness and mirth—struck 
with an unusual force through the leathery conscious¬ 
ness of the Philosopher and made him feel uncom¬ 
fortable just for a moment. He knew well enough 
what this voluntary soldier was prepared to meet,— 
the roar of guns, the crash of shells, the flying bombs, 
each instrument carrying death where it fell—and 
the light dismissal of danger in the phrase “It amuses 
me”—did for a brief interval move the student of 
many books to a sense of reluctant admiration as well 
as regret that he, too, was not young enough to 
fling a defiance at the hurling blows of the enemy. 
But, as a matter of fact, he had never been truly 
“young”—for even as a boy his utter self-absorption 
had set him apart from his fellows. At college, his 
aloofness had gained him many a “ragging,” though 
certain dry-as-dust professors thought they foresaw 
the ripening of “genius” in his unnatural self-satis¬ 
faction,—a mistake of course, and not the first by 
any means that dry-as-dust professors have made in 
their estimation of their students. There was not a 
touch of “genius” in him,—there was only a very 
great ability, chiefly shown in the absorption of other 
people’s ideas. Just now he took a couple of min¬ 
utes to recover from the slight rap Jack had uncon¬ 
sciously given to his carefully balanced mentality— 
then he said, suavely and graciously— 

“It is fortunate for the country that it can find 
young men who are willing to be ‘amused’ by fight¬ 
ing for a cause which is not their own,” and a small, 
grim smile furrowed his features. “In fact, I con- 


130 LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

sider the war a positive godsend to the youth of both 
sexes—a godsend, I tell you! It makes a clearance 
of the useless under the name of ‘patriotism’ and it 
gives the idle—especially idle women—something 
to do.” 

“Do you know any idle women?” Jack asked. 
“I’ve never met one.” 

The Philosopher glared at him. 

“Never met one?” he echoed, ironically. “Good 
heavens, where have you lived? Idle women swarm 
in every town and village—positively swarm—” 

“No, they don’t,” interrupted Jack brusquely. 
“I’d just like you, sir, to do one day of a woman’s 
house-work!—you would not have much time for 
thought! Rich or poor she’s on the go and the grind 
all through!—especially if she has a husband and 
children to look after. And if not,—why, my spin¬ 
ster aunt out in California hasn’t an idle moment!” 

“Wonderful!” and the Philosopher looked like a 
fluffy owl in the rain with its head on one side. 
“What does she—the spinster aunt—do, for exam¬ 
ple?” 

Jack laughed, happily. 

“What does she not do!” he exclaimed. “She 
makes all the preserves and sweets—mends the stock¬ 
ings—works in the garden—nurses sick neighbours 
—looks after orphan children—but there!—you 
wouldn’t be interested!” 

“No, I’m afraid not!” and the Philosopher shook 
his head, gravely. “Preserves and sweets do appeal 
to me—but I prefer them manufactured rather than 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 131 


home produced,—and as for the rest of her energies, 
I think they might be better employed. However, 
we r will not argue! I take off my hat to you”—here 
he suited the action to the word—“as a remarkable 
young man who has never met an idle woman! And 
I hope you will have all the amusement you expect 
in France!” 

He made a kind of salute which comprehensively 
included the Sentimentalist as well as Jack and 
paced slowly on his way. Not till he was well out of 
hearing did Jack give vent to his feelings. He 
caught the little hand of the “rose-lady” conven¬ 
iently near his own and give it an ardent squeeze. 

“Promise me!” he said. “You have promised me; 
—but promise me again that you will not marry that 
cynical, selfish, mocking, old brute! He hasn’t an 
ounce of real feeling in his composition!” 

She smiled rather sadly. 

“Dear Jack, I shall not marry anybody!” she an¬ 
swered. “Certainly not this 'clever’ man! I’m 
afraid you’re right—he has no feeling—only the 
other day he heard of the death of one of his oldest 
friends and all he said was, 'Dear me! I shall miss 
him rather when I want a game at bowls!’ ” 

“Don’t say you won’t marry anybody,” said Jack, 
“because, please heaven, you’ll marry me! Won’t 
you*? But there!—I won’t bind you!” 

She said nothing; only her blue eyes had wells of 
sweetness in them in which a poet might ask love to 
drown. He held her hand a little closer—and drew 
himself up straightly with a resolute air. 


132 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“I must go now,” he said. “Good-bye, dear! I 
won’t bother you to think of me or write to me— 
or any trouble of that sort—” 

“Oh, Jack! It won’t be a trouble!” 

“It might be!” and he set his lips hard. “The 
only thing I do ask is that you go and see my old 
Dad sometimes and let him come to see you. He’ll 
have all my news—field service post cards and every¬ 
thing—” 

He paused. The winsome face of the Sentimen¬ 
talist was uplifted—her lips were parted and tremu¬ 
lous—there were tears on her golden-brown lashes. 
In a reckless moment, not thinking of anything but 
carried away by the emotion of his soul, he caught 
her to his heart and kissed her once, twice, thrice, 
passionately. 

“Forgive me!” he whispered. “I can’t help it! 
God bless you, dear! Good-bye!” 

He turned with almost lightning suddenness, 
plunged through the brushwood by the river and dis¬ 
appeared. 

“Jack!” she called, plaintively. 

There was no answer. He had gone. She stood 
for a moment,—pained, bewildered, and yet thrilled 
by the fervour of that lover’s kiss,—the first she had 
ever known. How abruptly he had left her!—it was 
perhaps the best way—and yet,—would she ever see 
him again. The tears welled up suddenly and fell 
down her cheeks. 

“Oh, Jack!” she murmured, brokenly. “It is 
hard! You need not go really!—it is your own 
choice!—and I—I am so lonely!” 


CHAPTER IX 


/ I V HAT same evening the Philosopher took it into 
-** his head to be uncommonly disagreeable and 
ill-mannered. He found fault with everything, even 
with his dinner (which he had neither provided nor 
paid for) and he was judicially severe on his host 
for allowing himself to be “done,” as he put it, by 
his tradesmen. 

“Call this mutton!” he said, viciously chopping at 
the meat on his plate. “It’s leather!—and old 
leather too! No wonder you’ve got the gout!— 
you’re eating gout now! You’ve got a cook, I sup¬ 
pose, and she ought to be ashamed of herself for 
taking such mutton into the house—she doesn’t know 
her business—” 

The Sentimentalist interrupted him. Her cheeks 
were flushed with indignation and embarrassment. 

“I am the one to blame,” she said, coldly. “I am 
alone responsible for the housekeeping. One cannot 
always command perfection. But please do not ir¬ 
ritate Dad—he is easily upset—” 

“Upset? I should think so!” snorted the Philoso¬ 
pher. “He’s got to pay for this beastly mutton!” 

For one flashing second the blue eyes of his 
hostess swept over him in a glance of immeasurable 
scorn. Then she rose from table and left the room. 
Outside the door she met the parlourmaid. 

“Well, I never, Miss!” observed that young 

133 


134 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

woman. “If your Pa were in his ’e’lth he ought 
to order that old curmudgeon out of the house! Call 
Hm a friend! The cheek of ’im!” 

The Sentimentalist could not answer. As mistress 
of the house she smarted under the rudeness this 
“clever” man had inflicted upon her at her own 
table. If the mutton was tough, she felt that he 
considered the fault to be hers, though she, poor 
little woman, was neither the butcher nor the cook. 
Moreover, the bad manners displayed in finding fault 
with the food provided at a hospitable board on 
which he had “sponged” for weeks together, proved, 
to her regret that though he might be a distinguished 
University “light of learning,” he was not a gentle¬ 
man. This reflection calmed the hurry of her nerves 
—she re-entered the dining-room and resumed her 
place, ignoring the quizzical and enquiring look of 
the Philosopher as she did so. 

“What did you go out of the room like that for 4 ?” 
grumbled her father. “Anything important 4 ?” 

She smiled. 

“Yes—important to me. I had an order to give.” 

“Oh! Couldn’t you have given it here 4 ?” 

“No.” 

Silence followed. 

The Philosopher became aware that she was 
“queening” it. He tried to start a subject of con¬ 
versation—but his efforts fell flat. She neither 
looked at him nor seemed to hear him. He there¬ 
fore addressed himself solely to his host, who re¬ 
plied somewhat disjointedly to his remarks. Both 
men were made distinctly uncomfortable by the quiet 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 135 


air of sovereign indifference maintained in the atti¬ 
tude and expression of the charming mistress of the 
house, and though he was as adamant in his own 
egoism the Philosopher for once wished he had con¬ 
trolled his emotions concerning tough mutton. 

Dessert and coffee served, the Sentimentalist left 
the “gentlemen” to themselves, and, retiring to her 
own room began to think, and to wonder how long 
the Philosopher like another “Old Man of the Sea” 
purposed riding on the back of her little household. 

“It seems very hard!” she mused. “I can’t imag¬ 
ine why Dad finds him so necessary!—or why that 
awful book should be compiled at all!” 

Then she looked back to the time when the Phi¬ 
losopher had been first invited to come and stay— 
how ardently she had looked forward to meeting this 
“clever” man,—how she had pictured the charming 
and intellectual talks they might have together,— 
what a friend he w T ould be to “Dad”—such a bril¬ 
liant, learned and—yes!—surely kind-hearted man! 
For the Sentimentalist had a very erroneous notion 
fixed in her little head,—and this was that men who 
were rich in knowledge must be likewise rich in 
heart; because having learnt many things they would 
be sure to have wise tolerance and pity for the mis¬ 
takes and follies of the ignorant,—so she thought. 
She was wrong of course—and she had to discover 
the sad fact that many so-called “great” men are 
amazingly small of character and petty in disposi¬ 
tion. She blushed for very shame now as she remem¬ 
bered that she had almost —not quite!—but almost 
imagined herself growing attached to the Philoso- 


136 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

pher—“Yes!” she said to her own soul, indignantly 
—“I actually did come near loving him for a day 
or two!—when he was nice—and he can be nice 
when he likes!—and of course I felt he was trying to 
make love to me!—and I thought it such an honourl 
But, oh!”—here she gave herself a little shake— 
“What an awful, awful husband he would make! 
—what tempers he would have!—and what nasty 
sarcastical things he would say if he felt like say¬ 
ing them! He wouldn’t care how he hurt one!—no, 
not he! He likes to hurt people—positively enjoys 
it!” 

She gave herself another little shake,—then mur¬ 
mured irrelevantly,— 

“Poor Jack!” 

A sigh escaped her, and she went on talking to 
herself. 

“Poor Jack! He’s not clever—no!—he often 
says the stupidest things!—but—ah!—he wouldn’t 
hurt any one for all the world! I think—yes, I’m 
sure!—I’d rather have a kind husband than a clever 
one!” 

She lost herself in meditation for a while. All at 
once she heard a tap at her door. 

“Come in!” she said. 

And the Philosopher made his appearance. 

“Where’s my pipe 4 ?” he asked. 

Amazed at his cool effrontery she looked at him, 
hardly knowing whether to laugh, or to order him 
out of the room. 

“Come, come!” he went on testily. “You know 
where everything is in the house and if anything is 



LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 137 

mislaid you can generally find it. Eve lost my pipe 
—it’s not in my coat pocket and I don't think I left 
it on the seat by the river this afternoon—I might 
have done so—” 

“Perhaps you had better go and look,” she said, 
frigidly. “I believe there’s a moon.” 

“Or I can take a lantern,” he replied. “But do 
you mean to say you haven’t seen it 4 ?” 

“I certainly have not!" 

“You are generally so kind!” he mumbled, in 
querulous tones. “Whenever you see it lying about 
you put it where I can find it—” 

“But I haven’t seen it lying about this time,” she 
said. “You had better ask the servants.” 

He stood on the threshold peering into the room. 

“You have a nice little bower here,” he remarked, 
condescendingly. “Is this where you play at house¬ 
keeping and settle domestic quarrels?” 

She made no answer. 

“I see you are on your high horse!” he went on. 
“A tall and stalking quadruped! Can’t I assist you 
to alight?” 

“I don’t know what you mean!” she said, looking 
full at him. “Please explain!” 

“You know very well what I mean,” he proceeded 
affably. “You resent my recent observations on 
tough mutton for dinner. And you have mounted 
your high horse accordingly.” 

She bit her lips to avoid laughing. He was so 
absolute, so obstinate in his own view of every inci¬ 
dent, however trifling! 

“I admit,” he went on, “that I was not polite. I 


138 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

might have expressed myself less bluntly. I also 
admit that I was conscious of considerable irritation. 
I—I apologise!” 

She made a slight deprecating movement of her 
hand. 

“Please say nothing more about it!” and her voice 
though soft, was very cold in tone. “I wish to for¬ 
get the incident.” 

He leaned against the doorpost in a drooping and 
dejected attitude. 

“But you accept my apology?” 

“Oh, certainly!” 

There was a pause. 

“I wish,” he then said, mournfully, “I wish I 
could find my pipe!” 

The mirthful side of her disposition was touched, 
and she laughed,—a bright little laugh like that of 
a happy child. The Philosopher straightened him¬ 
self. 

“That’s right!” he said, approvingly. “I like to 
hear you laugh! So much better than prancing on 
your high horse!” 

She laughed again. 

“Oh, dear, oh, dear!” she exclaimed. “For such 
a learned man, you are really very funny!” 

“I hope so!” he answered. “Though Tunny’ is 
scarcely the word—'amusing’ would be more accur¬ 
ate. Learned men ought to be amusing; if they are 
not so they are invariably dull. Now I am never 
dull. My worst enemy could not accuse me of dul- 
ness,—if I had a wife she would find me an amusing 
husband.” 



LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 139 


“Really!” 

The Sentimentalist’s blue eyes were still twinkling 
with merriment. 

“Yes,—really. And that is a great thing—for 
husbands, like wives, too often become monotonous. 
I wish”—here his voice sank again to plaintiveness— 
“I do wish I could find my pipe! Your father wants 
a game of billiards—” 

“Where did you last have the pipe 4 ?” and the 
Sentimentalist rose from her chair and prepared 
to leave the room on a search for the mislaid 
“briar,” which was what the Philosopher wanted. 
“Have you looked in the pocket of your over¬ 
coat 4 ?” 

“No,” here the Philosopher laid a detaining hand 
on her arm; “but I remember I had the overcoat on 
this morning when I met you and that young man 
in khaki. And you are not on your high horse any 
more?” 

She drew herself gently away. 

“No.” 

She went towards the billiard-room. He followed 
slowly, with a sense that he had been worsted some¬ 
how in a mutual clashing of tempers, but in what 
way he could not quite determine. But she was not 
a “plum” to be easily gathered. 

The most casual glance here and there sufficed to 
locate the missing pipe; it was on a table in the hall. 
One might have imagined that the Philosopher had 
purposely left it there. When it was handed to him 
he accepted it dubiously as though it had belonged 
to somebody else. He prodded the ash in its bowl 


140 LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

with his little finger and looked at the Sentimen¬ 
talist. 

“You’re coming, aren’t you?” he queried. 

“Into the billiard-room? I think not,” she re¬ 
plied. “The game doesn’t interest me.” 

“A pity it doesn’t,” he retorted. “Sureness of eye, 
skill of hand,—these are things a woman should 
learn.” 

“No doubt!” and with this brief response she 
moved away. 

The Philosopher, still prodding his pipe, rumi¬ 
nated. It would never do!—he said within himself 
—she would never do! As a wife she would be “im¬ 
possible.” It never occurred to him to think that 
as a husband he might equally be “impossible.” And 
yet—she was really very attractive! And she would 
have money:—and the comfortable old manor house 
would be hers. He pictured himself settled for life 
—waited upon by a charming woman, warming his 
feet by the great log-fire, with nothing to do but 
write an occasional ponderous essay or article for 
one of the heavy reviews, just to keep up the press- 
clique reputation he had managed to obtain through 
his club acquaintances. 

“I’ll try if I can make a dash for it,” he thought. 
“Give her one or two days to get over the departure 
of that fool of a young man Jack—and then I’ll see 
what can be done.” 

He strolled into the billiard-room where his host 
was impatiently awaiting him, and very soon the 
monotonous click-clack of the billiard balls was the 
only sound that disturbed the silence. 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 141 


Some mornings later a little old gentleman in a 
brown frieze suit called to see the Sentimentalist, 
who welcomed him with a frank delight to which he 
was not commonly accustomed. 

“It’s because Pm Jack’s father!” he said, in¬ 
wardly, with a chuckle—and he was right. Jack’s 
father! That was it! The Sentimentalist had never 
shown herself to better advantage—her eyes had 
never sparkled more brightly or her smile been more 
winning than for this wizened old personage who 
was reported to be the hardest, most close-fisted cur¬ 
mudgeon alive. 

“Well!” he said, after the first ordinary greet¬ 
ings were over. “Jack went off all right—as chirpy 
as a cricket!” 

“Yes'? I’m so glad!” murmured the Sentimen¬ 
talist. “I know he feels he is doing the right thing!” 

“Well!” and the ejaculation was repeated again 
with a strong American drawl. “It may be so! I 
don’t know! He does what he likes so long as he 
don’t spend much money—and the army has taken 
him off my hands for the present, which is all to the 
good. Boys like fighting, and I s’pose he’ll get 
some!” 

The Sentimentalist said nothing. She had known 
Jack’s father intermittently for some months, and 
she was aware that his disposition seemed to be more 
curious than kindly. And while she kept silence, his 
small keen eyes studied her critically, and the shadow 
of a smile lurked under his fuzzy white mous¬ 
tache. 

“How is the Papa*?” he enquired. 


142 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“About the same,” she answered, cheerfully. 
“Rather gouty, and always busy with his book.” 

“Oh! And is the old chap with him still 4 ?” 

“You mean the Philosopher? Oh, yes! He is 
here—but I believe he’s going to Oxford next week 
for—for a while.” 

“Only for a while? Why don’t he stay there?” 

“Well, you see he’s a great help to father—” 

“Yes—yes! Jack told me. But the book will be 
finished some time, won’t it?—say a month before 
the Judgment Day?” 

She laughed. 

“Oh, I hope so! But of course it’s heavy work, 
and takes a lot of time and patience—” 

“Wasted labour!” growled Jack’s father. “Like 
all the great useless books packed up in big libraries; 
nobody reads them except a few old curiosity 
hunters, and nobody wants to read them either—” 

“As reference books,” suggested the Sentimen¬ 
talist, “they are perhaps necessary. You see”— 
and she sighed—“people cannot live on romance 
and poetry.” 

“No, they can’t, but lots of them try to!” and 
the old gentleman treated her to a very wide smile 
and very narrow wink. “You, for instance —you 
live on romance and poetry!” 

Her blue eyes filled with amazement. 

“I? Oh, no! Indeed, no! I like to think of 
beautiful things more than of ugly ones—that’s 
all!” 

“I’m afraid your thoughts run in a mistaken 
direction,” said Jack’s father, rubbing his nose vio- 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 143 

lently with a multi-coloured silk handkerchief. 
“Beautiful things are rare,—ugly things are of 
every day. Look at me for instance! I’m an ugly 
thing—” 

She made a pretty gesture of smiling protest. 

“I am!” he persisted. “But that Oxford chap 
is uglier!” 

She laughed outright—then made a warning sign 
with a small uplifted finger, as just then the Phi¬ 
losopher strolled into the room. Jack’s father eyed 
him up and down. 

“Good-morning, sir!” he said. 

“Good-morning!” returned the Philosopher, con¬ 
descendingly. “I think I saw you engaged in the 
gentle piscatorial art during the summer,—in short, 
fishing from a boat on the river—but I have not 
the pleasure—” 

The Sentimentalist hastened to explain. He was 
the father of Jack. Oh, indeed! That was it*? 
This little, lean, gimlet-eyed old man was Jack’s 
father! The Philosopher became cheerful—almost 
jocose. 

“I congratulate you,” he said, “on the departure 
of your son for France. It must be very gratifying 
to you!” 

“It is!” and the sharp American glance “sized 
him up” as it were in a second. “He’s my only— 
and I’m glad he’s got grit in him.” 

The Philosopher winced. The expression “got 
grit” wounded his sensitive ears. It was so rough 
—so unscholarly. 

“Grit,” he remarked suavely, “I suppose implies 


144 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

the spirit which impels a man to fight for a country 
not his own and to kill as many men as he can of 
a nation which has never done him any personal 
harm.” 

“You can put it that way,” said Jack’s father, 
“if you like! There’s all sorts of ways of saying 
a thing—and that’s your way.” 

He gave vent to a sound between a chuckle and 
a snort. It might have meant amusement or con¬ 
tempt, or both. 

The Philosopher eyed him meditatively. 

“Yes, that is my way,” he agreed. “I confess 
I have no sympathy with the war fever. I dislike 
sheep tendencies in men. I do not admire their 
blind obedience to the order of a possibly stupid 
government. It shows that there is no originality 
of thought or character among them. A few bold 
and independent men could stop war altogether.” 

“Well, I differ from you, sir,” said Jack’s father. 
“I don’t think all the saints that were ever cal¬ 
endared could prevent war. Why, everything in 
nature fights, from birth to death! It’s all a battle. 
Birds, beasts, insects,—even trees fight for room 
to expand. A good struggle against wind and tide 
makes the voyage worth while.” 

The Sentimentalist smiled. 

“I think so too!” she gently ventured to say. 
“Life would be so dull and monotonous without 
some sort of contest and opposition.” 

The Philosopher bent an indulgent glance upon 
her. 

“You can afford to say that because you have 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 145 

never Jhad either contest or opposition/’ he remarked, 
pleasantly. “You are a little lady accustomed to 
have her own way in everything. And yet, you 
do not find it dull—or monotonous! As long as the 
roses bloom and the butterflies dance, you will be 
perfectly satisfied!” 

His voice was quite musical,—his expression kind 
—and Jack’s father began almost to like him. Cer¬ 
tainly the Philosopher had his good points like other 
people, though they were not often apparent. The 
conversation now took another turn with the en¬ 
trance of the master of the house,—the author of 
“The Deterioration of Language Invariably Per¬ 
ceived”—who very soon mounted on his hobby¬ 
horse and was not altogether uninteresting in his 
discourse. 

“You Americans,” he said, addressing Jack’s 
father, “are not nearly so much to blame as we 
are in the spoiling of the English language. You 
often use, quite unconsciously, very good old English 
words and expressions which were common in Tu¬ 
dor times and are now fallen into oblivion. But 
we are at one in the general crime of slang. The 
vulgar exclamation hipping’ uttered by men and 
women alike is a disgrace to speech. Some person 
writing ‘society’ twaddle in one of the pictorials, 
uses the lowest slang as profusely as a farm la¬ 
bourer scatters manure,—creating a positive stink 
in the nostrils of any lover of good English—yet 
she—it is a woman of course!—is admired for her 
‘style’! ‘Style’!” and the old gentleman grunted 
his contempt. “ ‘Style’ perished with Addison and 




146 LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

Macaulay. If my daughter dared to use the word 
‘ripping' in my presence I’d—I’d disown her!” 

And, pulling out a red handkerchief, he rubbed 
his nose violently, while the Sentimentalist laugh¬ 
ingly put her arm round him. 

“Would you, Dad?” she asked. “Really and 
truly?” 

He peered at her fair face and tender eyes, with 
a relenting smile. 

“Well, perhaps not quite” he admitted. “But 
nearly!” 

The Philosopher looked on and listened. He 
thought the Sentimentalist charming in her pretty 
attitude of coaxing tolerance for her father,—he 
wished she would put her arm round his neck in 
the same sort of way. But she never would—of 
that he felt pretty sure! And it was all the fault 
of that confounded Jack!—or was it the affair of 
the mutton? He was not clear as to which obstacle 
had arisen in the way of his very dilatory wooing 
—but he found himself considering that after all 
there might be a certain satisfaction in “caring about 
some one”—as his club friend had once suggested, 
or rather, having some one to care about yourself. 
He withdrew his interest from the general con¬ 
versation as was his habit when he was not the 
centre of it, and went to a corner table where he 
pretended to write a letter. And he was surprised 
and not very pleased to hear the lively talk and 
laughter which ensued on his retreat. Even the 
gouty author of “The Deterioration of Language” 
made merry! Jack’s father told good stories and 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 147 


evidently had the keenest sense of humour. The 
old gentleman stayed a considerable time, and when 
ready to go, asked the Sentimentalist to walk home 
with him, to which proposition she readily assented. 
They left the room together, having apparently 
forgotten all about the Philosopher or his presence 
in the room. This was somewhat galling; especially 
as his host seemed likewise to have forgotten him, 
for he trotted slowly away back to his library, 
whistling as he went. An uncomfortable sense of 
emptiness was in the air,—and just for once in his 
self-absorbed existence the Philosopher felt he was 
“not wanted.” He was mentally placed outside 
the,gates of a little family paradise where he plainly 
saw a notice put up—“No Philosophers need ap¬ 
ply.” And he found himself growing inwardly sad 
and angry. Sitting down by the cheerful log fire he 
began to ask questions of his intellectual ego, —as, 
for example, did much learning add to the sum of 
human happiness*? When one knew the scientific 
causes of every happening, did such knowledge make 
sorrow easier to bear, or life more tolerable? The 
answer, as certain leaders of the House of Commons 
would say, was in the negative. And yet, on the 
other hand, love, or what is called love, was, so 
the Philosopher asserted, only for very young people. 

“Like a teddy-bear for a baby!” he mused, grimly. 
“And how soon the baby tires of the teddy-bear!” 

Comfort,—physical and material comfort in life 
—-that was, in his opinion, the chief thing to aim at. 

“And I doubt—I very much doubt,” he thought, 
“whether she”—here he alluded to the Sentimen- 


148 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

talist—“would be a comfort. She would more 
likely be a worry and an embarrassment. She is 
charming, but erratic. She has ideals—and they 
are absurd. She has feelings—equally absurd. She 
would shed tears if her husband forgot to kiss her. 
More absurd than absurdity itself! She would re¬ 
sent neglect. And I believe she has a temper. Now 
a wife, to be satisfactory, should be docile and sub¬ 
missive—she should keep her 'feelings’ in the back¬ 
ground, attend to her household and be—well, yes! 
—a well-trained automaton. Then there would be 
peace, and a well-ordered establishment, which I 
should not object to. But a woman such as She 
is, with eyes that smile one moment and weep the 
next, and emotions as changeful as the wind—she 
would be a handful to manage!—if she could be 
managed, which is open to serious question! If 
that young ass Jack comes home and marries her 
I shall be sorry for him!—yes, I shall be very sorry 
for him! But”—here he settled himself more com¬ 
fortably in his chair—“in all probability he will not 
survive! He is just the kind of headstrong fool 
to make himself a target for the German guns!” 

And with this reflection, which moved him to 
smile quite pleasantly, he composed himself for a 
quiet nap before luncheon. 




CHAPTER X 


T TP to the present moment it has seemed hardly 
necessary to mention the name of the Senti¬ 
mentalist. She was so distinctly a Sentimentalist 
that the appellation bestowed upon her by her god¬ 
fathers and godmothers at the baptismal font al¬ 
ways seemed superfluous. Yet it was quite a pretty 
name,—and in a subtle way suggested her nature 
and surroundings. It was Sylvia. It was a name 
the Philosopher found objectionable as soon as he 
knew her well enough to display his contentious 
and “criss-cross” humours. 

“Sylvia is a name that belongs to the age of 
decadent romantic fiction,” he told her, with a kind 
of derisive sternness. “You might as well be called 
Amanda!” 

“True!” she laughed. “I wonder why I wasn’t!” 

“Amanda,” he went on, “is the name of a feeble 

heroine in an old, very old and very stupid novel 

called ‘The Children of the Forest.’ She was a 

young person who was for ever weeping, or, when 

not weeping, fainting in the arms of a man. There 

was a villain in the piece who always pursued her 

—(why, no sane creature can imagine) and never, 

thanks to a kindly Providence, succeeded in winning 

her. Then there was the £ noble’ lover of course!— 

a pattern of all the virtues, and an unmitigated 

nuisance—a fellow who shed tears with his Amanda 

149 


150 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

and drew a useless sword on the smallest provoca¬ 
tion—altogether a sickly rhodomontade of sickly 
sentiment and twaddle — 55 

“Why did you read it?” she asked. 

“I was very young,” he replied with a brief snort 
of contempt for his unsophisticated past. “Terribly 
young! But quite old enough to find 'Amanda 5 a 
bore!” 

She smiled. 

“Well, I 5 m not Amanda ! 55 she said, gaily. “No¬ 
body thought of giving me that name! But I’m 
sorry you don’t like the name of Sylvia!—I rather 
fancy it myself!” 

The Philosopher made no further comment just 
then. This conversation had taken place in the 
very early days of his acquaintance with the Senti-' 
mentalist, and he was careful of his ground. 
Greatly as he admired his own rudeness (which he 
considered clever and amusing) he knew it was not 
advisable to display his inherent bad manners to a 
hostess before making himself sure of her amiable 
tolerance; as a more or less “distinguished” man 
of literary attainment he had established a conven¬ 
ient reputation for eccentricity which allowed him 
a certain latitude of behaviour,—he could say things 
which nobody else said, and do things nobody else 
did. His acrid observations on men and things 
were condoned because “he’s so clever, you know!” 
people would declare, with the foolish giggle where¬ 
with they accept monstrosities at a country fair. 
And his professed objection to the name of Sylvia 
wore down in time, being in truth an objection that 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 151 


never existed at all save in the inconsistent and 
crotchety tendency of his own brain. Two or three 
times he had found occasion to sniff and snort his 
irritation when Jack, now happily removed for a 
time from the social scene, had essayed to sing “Who 
is Sylvia, what is she 4 ?” in a voice which was un¬ 
fortunate in timbre and guiltless of training,—but 
he had refrained from any positive comment on that 
young man’s vocal efforts. And a long period had 
elapsed or had seemed to elapse between then and 
now. The mild peace of the English countryside 
had been harried by “alarums and excursions”;— 
War, the wicked—War, the barbaric—had arisen 
in mad ferocity like a brute beast from its lair, 
and its destructive force and evil influence was felt 
everywhere, even in the little sequestered village 
where the Sentimentalist had her pretty home, and 
where she had been accustomed to see little save 
the beauty of an untroubled Nature. The long 
white building temporarily erected as a Voluntary 
Aid Hospital for the wounded made its suggestive 
presence felt on the land where it stood sheltered 
by a belt of beautiful old trees,—and the Senti¬ 
mentalist’s time was divided between it and the 
care of her father in a manner that left her little 
leisure to attend to the Philosopher when he came 
(as he persistently did) to assist in the continuance 
of the great philological work which was intended 
to propound an entirely new idea of civilisation 
to a waiting and expectant world. Dr. Maynard, 
the venerable author, was growing more and more 
feeble, and the gout was laying a faster grip on 


152 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

his weary limbs, and had it not been for the in¬ 
terest he took in his literary research and the patient 
indulgence maintained by his devoted daughter for 
all his whims and fancies he might have “gone 
under” more rapidly than was anticipated. This 
was indeed the reason why the Philosopher was 
tolerated and even encouraged,—for the poor little 
Sentimentalist dreaded being left entirely alone with 
her father, and “The Deterioration of Language.” 
As long as the old gentleman was kept amused and 
occupied the gout was partially held in check, and 
this desirable result was all she sought. For her¬ 
self and her own happiness she had little care,—her 
naturally bright spirit was clouded by sorrows she 
could not alleviate,—sorrows wrought by the war, 
and coming fast one upon the other like clouds 
rolling up in a storm. Day after day the wounded 
were brought to the hospital among the trees,— 
day after day she saw terrible sights of suffering 
which she, as the little “rose-lady” of Jack’s ado¬ 
ration had never expected to see,—and what was 
worst of all to her , day after day of utter silence 
and suspense racked her nerves in the longing for 
news that never came. In the first year of the war, 
old John Durham, Jack’s father,—had received let¬ 
ters and “field cards” with tolerable regularity— 
his son wrote that he was “well” and “in fine form” 
—and Sylvia had a card or two expressed with the 
usual military reticence. But after a while and 
all suddenly a great silence fell, and enquiries at 
the War Office only elicited the ominous word 
“Missing.” The blow was a heavy one to the father 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 153 


of the cheery young fellow who had so gallantly 
resolved to risk his life in the service of a country 
not his own, and he crept about more or less feebly, 
with bent head and drooping shoulders, only bracing 
himself up whenever he saw Sylvia, who made it 
one of her special duties to look after him as much 
as possible—“for Jack’s sake” as she would whisper 
to herself sadly when alone. Not that she ever 
gave up hope. No,—the word “Missing” held out 
fair promise to her pure and prayerful soul. She 
was sure—yes, quite sure, that Jack was not killed 
—that he would return just the same joyous-hearted 
Jack as ever! So she told his father—her sweet, 
loving, blue eyes sparkling with tears, as she spoke; 
—and he,—well !■—somehow he found it difficult 
to speak, and only pressed her little hand till it 
was almost crushed in his own rough palm. 

Among these characters and influences one would 
have thought the Philosopher—the learned Walter 
Craig, F.R.S.A., LL.D., and as many other letters 
of the alphabet as various Universities can tack on 
to one small mortal name—would have found him¬ 
self out of place. In strict accordance with his own 
theories he ought to have been “bored”—but he 
wasn’t. As a matter of fact after young Jack Dur¬ 
ham had been reported as “Missing” he had ex¬ 
perienced a greater interest in the whole situation. 
There was nothing to disturb his general equanimity. 
His work with the querulous and ailing old Dr. 
Maynard was intricate and more or less amusing; 
he had comfortable quarters in a pretty and well- 
ordered house—and he had no twinges of conscience 


154 LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

in performing the part of a “sponge,” because he 
felt (and in this he was right) that in keeping his 
invalid host occupied with his “great work” he was 
performing a real service, for which he might justly 
claim board and lodging. And as the war was go¬ 
ing on and things were very uncomfortable in Lon¬ 
don, he took his chance of ease and safety as long 
as he could get it. The only fly in his amber was 
old John Durham. With all his heart he detested 
this wiry wizened American with eyes as sharp as 
gimlets and a face like a nut-cracker. He grudged 
the affectionate solicitude with which Sentimentalist 
Sylvia regarded him—the anxiety she evinced con¬ 
cerning his health and general well-being all, for¬ 
sooth!—because he was Jack’s father, and Jack 
himself was “Missing.” To him there was nothing 
pathetic in the gradual droop of the old man’s 
physical frame, or the lines of sorrow and suspense 
that delved themselves round his whole countenance, 
—all that he saw was that Sylvia rather allowed 
herself to be monopolised by him in the intervals 
when she was not in attendance on her father or 
working at the Hospital; and one day the startling 
notion seized him that perhaps,—Jack being “miss¬ 
ing,”—his father might “make tracks” (an expres¬ 
sion old Durham often used) for Sylvia himself! 
This idea buzzed in his brain like a persistent 
bumblebee on a window-pane. 

“Old men marry young women every day—” he 
argued with himself. “Especially when they feel 
lonely. Then, from all I can gather, this American 
has got money, and she may not be indifferent to 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 155 

that! Of course his great asset is that he’s 'Jack’s 
father’!” Here the Philosopher snorted contempt. 
“Little goose as she is!—little sentimental goose! 
I wonder if Maynard has any suspicion of the in¬ 
tentions of this ancient courtier—” 

Here another brilliant suggestion struck illumi¬ 
nation on his brain. 

“I’m not as old as Durham,—certainly not!” he 
thought. “Ah!—not by a good six or seven years! 
Then why—” 

His meditations here began to gallop along 
strange and unaccustomed routes,—stray reflections 
of couleur de rose wavered across the grey monot¬ 
ony of his learned mentality, and almost he was 
conscious of a faint sense of returning youth. 

“I’m not as old as Durham!” he repeated, with 
a kind of inward jubilation. “Then why should 
not I take a bold step 4 ? My peace of mind would 
probably be destroyed, and I should have to put 
up with many annoyances and small absurdities— 
still, take her for what she is, there’s a charm about 
her rather rare to find nowadays among modern 
women. I know what I’ll do! I’ll give a gentle 
hint—quite gentle,—to Maynard himself. He 
might be glad to have his daughter’s future safely 
assured—it would make him easier in his mind.” 

But—for the moment—none of his ideas or res¬ 
olutions matured into action. The days went on, 
—each day bringing its dreadful toll of young 
brave lives crushed out on the fields of Flanders, 
—and in the pretty old Manor-house the famous 
"Deterioration of Language” also went on as relent- 



156 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

lessly as the war. Quietly the Sentimentalist per¬ 
formed all her rounds of duty, growing visibly 
paler and thinner, but making no complaint. Only 
when she was alone in her bedroom at night and 
when she looked out of its quaint latticed window 
at the thick battalions of stars in the dark space, 
did she weep a little and wonder at the cruelty 
of men to one another,—at the selfishness of states¬ 
men who make war—and at the solemn silence of 
that vast Ruling Power to whom all the genera¬ 
tions of mankind have in turn appealed in various 
forms,—apparently in vain! Was it wicked to 
think that it was “in vain”—she questioned her¬ 
self To pursue such an enquiry was futile, for 
she constantly pictured to herself the helpless, stiff¬ 
ening forms of brave boys stretched out on the 
sodden battlefield, whose lives might have been the 
joy and pride of their parents; and in these sad 
reflections she failed to see anything but the direct 
injustice, nor could she admit that there was a 
“divine Providence” in the ordainment of such dis¬ 
aster. She recognised clearly enough that the mis¬ 
chief was the work of man and man only, but in 
a simple, blind way she would think that if indeed 
a good God ruled the world He might have stopped 
it in the beginning. And she prayed to be forgiven 
if her thought was wrong. 

One quiet evening when an unusually glorious 
sunset had showered its glowing crimson on the 
river and woods and had shed a warm and tender 
light on the pile of books and manuscript on the 
table in Dr. Maynard’s library where he and the 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 157 


Philosopher sat at work, the author of the “Deteri¬ 
oration of Language” showed signs of fatigue and 
irritation, whereat the Philosopher suggested a 
break in their studies. 

“Let’s talk!” he said, affably, as he assisted in 
pushing Dr. Maynard’s chair nearer the window 
from which could be seen a charming peep of the 
garden. “We’ve done enough hard work for to¬ 
day. You’re tired.” 

“I’m always tired,” replied the old gentleman, 
querulously. “This infernal gout is killing me!” 

“No doubt!” agreed the Philosopher, suavely. 
“But it’s doing it quite gently! Twinges of the 
toe—yes!—of course. Still things might be worse. 
You might have had cancer!” 

“That’s no consolation!” growled old Maynard. 
“What I might have had doesn’t matter. It’s what 
I’ve got!” 

The distinguished Walter Craig, LL.D., F.S.A., 
nodded his head blandly. 

“My dear fellow, I know that! It’s what you’ve 
got! True! But we all 'get’ something, sooner 
or later, otherwise we should never grow old and 
never die. The latest science tells us there’s no 
such thing as 'natural’ death. We 'get’ something 
that is unnatural which forces our exit when we 
would rather stay where we find ourselves.” 

“What do you expect to 'get’ 4 ?” Maynard de¬ 
manded. 

“Much the same as yourself,” the Philosopher 
replied, with smiling equanimity. “Gout. It is 
an aristocratic illness,—it comes down to one like 


158 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

one's coat-of-arms. It's a case of the sins of the 
fathers. What the fathers did for me I don’t quite 
know—but they left me their disease in the most 
generous way. It has not affected me much yet— 
but it will.” 

“It will—you may depend on that!” and Dr. 
Maynard’s voice had quite a ring of cheerfulness 
as he spoke. “It never lets go its prey! I fought 
it off for years—but I’ve had to give in.” Here 
he peered anxiously through the window across the 
garden. “I wonder where Sylvia is? She’s always 
out of the way when I want her!” 

The Philosopher glanced at the clock. 

“It’s not quite the time for her to return from 
the Hospital—” he said. 

“Hospital? Hospital? It’s always the Hos¬ 
pital ! I’m sure I ought to be there, attended to 
and looked after quite as well as half of those 
strong young men with a bit of shell in their legs, 
or an arm off, or something of that kind! Such a 
fuss about nothing! God bless my soul! In Nel¬ 
son’s time the fighting fellows cut their own limbs 
off and stuck their stumps into boiling tar! That 
was something like hospital stuff! No molly-cod¬ 
dling there /” The old gentleman chuckled with a 
curiously malevolent pleasure. “But now we have 
all the girls and women bandaging, poulticing and 
feeding every young man with a scratch—and the 
better-looking the young man happens to be, the 
longer the scratch takes to heal!” Here he chuckled 
again. “That girl of mine passes nearly all her 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER* 159 

time at the Hospital—I can’t imagine what she’ll 
do without it when the war’s over.” 

“Ah!” And the Philosopher stroked his mous¬ 
tache meditatively. “Has it ever occurred to you 
to think what she will do without you when you 
are over*?” 

Old Maynard’s face grew suddenly pale, and a 
cowering fear gleamed in his eyes. 

“What do you mean?” he queried half angrily. 
“I’m not over yet! And I don’t intend to be 'over’!” 

“Good! Quite good!” and the Philosopher 
smiled amicably. “But—you know —Vhomme pro - 
pose et Dieu dispose! It is always well to prepare 
for emergencies. I consider that you should make 
sure of your daughter’s future comfort in this world 
before you leave it.” 

“Future comfort? God bless my soul!” snapped 
Maynard testily. “Do you suppose I’m a man to 
neglect the care of my own child? Future com¬ 
fort? She’ll have everything I possess—and that’s 
more than anybody knows of I can tell you!” 

Craig, F.S.A., LL.D., listened complacently. He 
was right in his surmise,—the girl would have 
plenty of money! Plenty of money! He almost 
smacked his lips as he thought of that friend of 
his who had secured a “Plum” in the matrimonial 
orchard—a “Plum” that had “dropped into his 
mouth with a bang!” Sylvia would not “drop” 
so—but she might be gathered gently off the parent 
tree with a careful hand. He thought a little be¬ 
fore speaking again. Then he said: 


160 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“She’s a charming girl. She ought to marry.” 

“Why?” And a twinge of pain caused the old 
Doctor to make a wry face as he put the question. 
“Why should she take up a husband to worry her 
for the rest of her life? She’s perfectly happy as 
she is.” 

The Philosopher assumed a grave and considerate 
air. 

“A woman—especially a pretty woman,” he said, 
“needs protection and support in this world. With¬ 
out a man’s care and guardianship she is invariably 
misjudged, slandered and suspected of some moral 
drawback—” 

“Is she though!” and Dr. Maynard sniffed scorn¬ 
ful incredulity. “Nowadays she seems to me to 
run amok more thoroughly when she’s married than 
when she’s single! She gets tired of her husband 
in six months or he gets tired of her—and the 
whole thing turns out a ghastly failure.” 

“You are thinking of extreme cases,” said the 
Philosopher, mildly. “Yet I presume your own mar¬ 
riage was a success?” 

A sudden smile of tenderness gave extraordinary 
light to the old man’s furrowed countenance. 

“It was!” he answered. “But that was in the 
old days! My wife was ‘old-fashioned.’ Home 
and love, husband and child were all the world 
to her—she never wanted anything else, bless her 
dear heart! Ah! The sunshine has never seemed 
quite so bright to me since she died.” 

The Philosopher was silent for a few minutes. 
There was a quiet pathos and simplicity in May- 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 161 


nard’s words that had an effect even on the india- 
rubber toughness of his academic disposition. 

“Your daughter is probably like her mother in 
nature and tastes,” he observed, presently. “And 
if so, this is all the more reason why she should 
not be deprived of a life that would be suited 
to her, apart altogether from the security and status 
of marriage.” 

Maynard grew a trifle restive under the searching 
gaze of the Philosopher’s eyes seen through rather 
unbecoming spectacles. 

“It’s all very well to talk!” he grumbled. 
“Who’s to marry the girl ^ There’s nobody in this 
village to suit her. They’re all ‘butchers and bakers 
and candlestick-makers’ here —very small trades¬ 
men all round. There’s the county Squire—he’s a 
widower with an idiot son who had to be put away 
in an asylum—and there’s a miserable little curate 
with a chronic cough. Of course there are a lot 
of wounded chaps at the Hospital,—mostly Tom¬ 
mies—I don’t think she’s likely to fancy one of 
them —” 

“What about old John Durham?” suddenly sug¬ 
gested the Philosopher, the corners of his moustache 
going up in a little quizzical smile. 

c ‘01d John Durham!” exclaimed Maynard. 
“Why he might be her grandfather! Now if you 
had said young John Durham,—Jack—there might 
be something in it—though he was always a silly 
ass—but he’s gone—‘missing,’ they say—” 

“Dead without a doubt,” said the Philosopher, 
pleasantly. “Killed in Flanders, quite needlessly. 


162 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

He was not called upon to fight at all—but being 
an American he was bound to indulge in a bit of 
braggadocio and offer to do battle for the 'old 
country, 5 and he 5 s had his way. It has struck me 
that his father, being left solitary, might think of 
marrying again. Rumour says he is a wealthy man 
—and Sylvia is a little creature who is accustomed 
to comfort, not to say luxury— 55 

"Of course she is! 55 and Dr. Maynard got flushed 
and excited. "Why shouldn’t she be*? She’s always 
had plenty of money—she’ll always have it! She’s 
not obliged to marry an old sallow face like Dur¬ 
ham to live like a princess if she wants to! God 
bless my soul, Craig—what are you driving at?” 

The Philosopher smiled soothingly. 

"My dear fellow, don’t lose your self-control over 
a trifling suggestion! All I have said is in the way 
of friendship and—and admiration for your young 
daughter. I think it would be very sad for her 
if at some time or other—far distant let us hope! 
—she were left alone in the world—even with 
plenty of money—having no one to advise her or 
to guard her interests. And I repeat that she ought 
to marry.” Here he paused—then added, "I am 
very fond of her myself!” 

Dr. Maynard turned slowly round in his chair 
and surveyed him with a fixed stare of wonder. 
“You?” 

The Philosopher did not flinch. 

"Yes. I!” 

And then the old gentleman began to laughs—a 
deep half-suppressed laugh of thorough enjoyment, 



LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 163 


—a laugh that shook his shoulders and wrinkled 
up his eyes in all sorts of curious deep furrows. 

“May and December!” he chuckled. “Or Decem¬ 
ber and May! She might as well take old Durham 
and have done with it!” 

The Philosopher maintained equanimity. He 
smiled,—and as people often noticed, there was 
something very attractive in his smile,—a flash of 
youth and humour. 

“I think,” he said, mildly, “you would find Sylvia 
likely to prefer me to old Durham. I think so!— 
of course I cannot be sure!” 

Dr. Maynard lifted himself in his chair, gripping 
its sides with both hands, and surveyed his friend 
and literary coadjutor for a couple of minutes in 
silence. 

“Now look here, Craig,” he said. “You don’t 
mean to insinuate that my little girl is in love with 
you? Why, man, she couldn’t be such a fool!” 

The Philosopher winced, and Maynard went on 
rather heatedly. 

“She’s a clever child and would make a good 
wife for a clever man, but you’re too clever! Too 
obstinate—too 'set’ in your own way—and you’re 
too old to change your habits. You’re a splendid 
scholar, but you’re deep in the ruts of learning— 
no wife could ever pull you out! You’ve no senti¬ 
ment—and Sylvia is all sentiment from head to 
heels!—full of fancies and romantic notions. 
You’d have to be young to understand her—and 
I don’t believe you ever were young!” 

“Thank you!” murmured the Philosopher. “Let 


164 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

us drop the subject! I spoke in a friendly desire 
to ease your mind of a possible anxiety as to your 
daughter’s future,—with me as a husband and pro¬ 
tector she would be safely guarded—” 

“And happy?” There was a slight tremor in 
Maynard’s voice as he put the question. “Would 
she be happy?” 

“If she were not it would be her own fault,” 
answered the Philosopher. “I should do my best 
to make her so. But let us say no more of it!” 

He took up a book and turned it over with ap¬ 
parently sudden interest. Dr. Maynard looked at 
him, and a twinge of the gout affected him un¬ 
pleasantly. He tried to picture the learned Walter 
Craig as his son-in-law,—but somehow failed in the 
effort. And yet!—Craig was a man of distinctive 
ability and reputation—he had his own special lit¬ 
erary “clique” who called him “a Master,” and his 
position in the world of letters was unassailable— 
numbers of people were proud to know him. His 
wife—if he had a wife—would occupy a position 
of honour and some dignity. But Sylvia!—little 
Sylvia as Mrs. Walter Craig!—Even the compiler 
of “The Deterioriation of Language” could not for¬ 
bear a passing thought as to “The Deterioration 
of a Woman’s Life!” He fidgeted on his chair and 
cast an appealing glance at the Philosopher. 

“Craig,” he faltered, nervously, “I believe you 
are thinking that I may die any time—” 

“My good fellow, of course you may!” blandly 
replied the Philosopher. “And so may I. My gout 
is not so ripe and well advanced as yours, but as 



LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 165 


Shakespeare’s Mercutio observed, ‘’Twill serve!’' 
Should it finish you off before me your daughter 
will be left comparatively unprotected. She has 
no relatives, so you once told me, but a divorced 
aunt. A divorced aunt is hardly a suitable com¬ 
panion. Now if I become her husband she at once 
steps to a platform of safety, and I can look after 
her till my own time comes; she will be then old 
enough and experienced enough to manage her own 
affairs.” 

Maynard listened, with something of a distressed 
foreboding in his mind. There was truth, harsh 
truth, and cold reason in the Philosopher’s plain 
view of the possible circumstances—but, at the same 
time a cloud of depression darkened the poor old 
scholar’s soul. Almost he could have whimpered, 
like a hurt child. At last he summoned up a show 
of resolution. 

“Have you ever spoken to Sylvia on—on—this 
subject?” he asked, tremulously. 

“Never!” And the Philosopher assumed a truly 
“noble” aspect. “Can you imagine it! I should 
not dream of doing so without your permission.” 

The old Doctor sighed. 

“Thank you!” he said, meekly. 

A pause ensued. 

Then came the sound of a light step on the gravel 
path outside the window, and both men looked 
through the vista of shrubs and flowers to see the 
Sentimentalist returning from her hospital work. 
She moved quickly, checking the wild gambols of 
a rough Airedale terrier to whom her presence was 


166 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

the acme of all earthly bliss,—but there was a little 
indefinable air of lassitude and fatigue about her 
which had not been any part of her aspect before 
the “silly ass” Jack Durham was known to be “miss¬ 
ing.” Her father looked at her wistfully as she 
went past the window; then suddenly laid his hand 
on the Philosopher’s arm. 

“I want her to be happy!” he said, pathetically. 
“She is a sensitive little creature! I want her to be 
loved and understood! There are too many 
wretched martyrs of married life in the world!— 
Heaven forbid the child should be one of them! 
But—if she has any affection for you—(it would 
be very strange!)—but if she has, I won’t stand 
in the way! You must find it out for yourself,— 
you can speak to her if you like, and put all the 
pros and cons before her. No one can beat you 
at that sort of thing! Tell her she’ll be lonesome 
when her old Dad dies”—he paused to swallow a 
lump in his throat—“and that you’ll try to take 
his place! Tell her that you will love her and 
make a pet of her!—that she’ll never hear a word 
of unkindness—tell her you love her now—that is, 
if you do! A woman will do anything to be loved! 
—it’s the nature of the creature. I should never 
have thought that you could love anybody!—but 
the strangest things happen oftenest—and the no¬ 
tion of your falling in love with my girl is one 
of those strangest things! I have said—and I re¬ 
peat it—I won’t stand in the way!” 

The Philosopher shrank a little from the pressure 
of his friend’s hand on his arm. Maynard was 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 167 


taking too sentimental a view of the case—much 
too sentimental a view! Because he had not really 
“fallen in love” with Sylvia—such a notion was 
absurd! quite absurd as applied to him, the Philos¬ 
opher. Nevertheless he recognised the futility of 
argument on so delicate a matter, especially as he 
had gained his point in so far that he had per¬ 
mission to speak to Sylvia. He hummed and hawed 
a little—his ugly cough threatened explosion, but 
he restrained it. 

“Thanks very much!” he said, reservedly. “You 
must not over-rate my—my—sense of attraction for 
—or attachment to—your daughter. My emotions 
are well under control—and when I speak to her 
on what I consider this very vital subject I shall 
take care to ground my approach on a strong basis 
of reason as well as—as affection. I am not in the 
flush of youth—” 

“No, that you’re not!” interpolated Dr. May¬ 
nard, with a shake of his head. “That’s a rosy colour 
we’ve both done with!” 

“I am not in the flush of youth,” repeated the 
Philosopher, laboriously. “But I have experience, 
patience and sound common sense. And from all I 
hear and read, it seems to me that these are valuable 
attributes in a husband. They are seldom evidenced 
by a wife. Wherefore I argue that a man possess¬ 
ing experience, patience and common sense is the 
proper guardian for a charming but inexperienced 
woman whose errors are all on the side of sentiment. 
Pretty sentiment—delightful sentiment!—still Sen¬ 
timent—and Sentiment is a dangerous guide—” 


168 LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

"‘Well, leave it at that!” said Dr. Maynard,— 
and a whimsical smile brightened his worn features. 
“Leave it at that! It won’t guide you anywhere 
too fast or too far!” 


CHAPTER XI 


O UNDAY was always the pleasantest day in the 
^ week for the Sentimentalist. She loved the 
peace of it,—the hush that seemed to fall on all 
the traffic and business of the world,—the slow, 
soft chiming of the village church bells at the morn¬ 
ing and afternoon hours of service, and the com¬ 
parative respite from her work at the hospital, which 
she never attended on Sundays, except when, moved 
by her own sympathies, she went to read to the 
wounded for an hour or so, or write letters for them 
to their homes. But, for the most part she spent 
the day at home, after attending church in the morn¬ 
ing, devoting herself chiefly to her father, with 
whom she chatted cheerfully on the smaller affairs 
of the time, avoiding as much as possible all dis¬ 
tressful subjects, and almost allowing him to think 
with the old farmer in “Punch”—“There ain’t no 
war!” She generally found time on this “holy” 
day to run down to the quaint old cottage rented 
by John Durham for his pet “sport” of fishing, and 
see for herself how “Jack’s father” was getting on, 
for it pained her beyond all words to notice his 
“broken” air, and the evident mental suffering he 
was undergoing, though he bravely repressed all 
outward sign of it. Concerning the Philosopher 
she troubled herself little. She had convinced her¬ 
self that he was of that singularly strong and leath- 

169 


170 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

ery constitution which is the frequent accompani¬ 
ment of all persons who are well seasoned in selfish¬ 
ness, and that he required no particular attention 
beyond what he was an adept in securing for him¬ 
self. So long as he was a companionable literary 
assistant to her father she had nothing to say either 
for or against him, albeit she was disappointed 
that her former notions concerning him as a dis¬ 
tinguished writer and would-be instructor of less 
advanced mankind, were hopelessly dispelled. 
Sometimes she turned for reference to one or two 
books he had written,—books that were admired 
by press “cliques” and pushed into the reluctant no¬ 
tice of the public without any successful result,— 
and she marvelled at the lofty utterances and didac¬ 
tic phrases which inculcated so much, from the 
pen of a man who never attempted to practise what 
he preached. And her meditations on this incon¬ 
gruity generally ended in a little shake of her fair 
head and a whimsical smile at her own folly for 
having imagined—once upon a time!—that such a 
man could have a heart for the sorrows or joys of 
his fellow-men. 

Sunday, as already stated, was her peaceful day; 
—her “stay-at-home” day, when she allowed her¬ 
self some rest,—when, if the weather was fine, she 
would sit in the garden among the roses—the very 
roses where “Jack” was accustomed to look for some 
special bud which he thought fitting for the adorn¬ 
ment of the “rose-lady,” and where the Philosopher 
had scratched his hand, to the imminent danger 
(according to his own diagnosis) of blood-poison- 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 171 

ing. Just now the pretty “bosquet” was a sad 
place—there were no roses out, and though the sun 
shone, the wind was cold. Nevertheless she went 
there with a book, moved to distract her thoughts 
from sickness and wounds and death, if only for 
a brief interval. From the window of the draw¬ 
ing-room the Philosopher saw her,—and, first of 
all filling his pipe and putting a box of matches in 
his pocket, strolled slowly out to make her aware 
of his presence. He was in an agreeable mood, 
and his smile was a pleasant one. 

“You are reading,” he said. “Am I in the way?” 

She looked up. 

“Oh, no!” she replied, gently. “I am not read¬ 
ing seriously—it is only what I call a 'peep-in’ 
book.” 

He took it from her hand. 

“Verse, I see!” he remarked. “Selections from 
the productions of various verse-mongers. Well! 
. . . and you 'peep in’ at the general show! Not 
a bad expression that!—a 'peep-in’ book. Most 
books merit no more than a 'peep-in.’ ” Here he 
turned over the pages. “Dear, dear! It is aston¬ 
ishing that so much rhymed rubbish still goes on 
being printed! Dear, dear! 

“ ‘As the flight of a river 
That flows to the sea, 

So my soul rushes ever 
In tumult to thee!’ 

Bulwer’s twaddle!—Lytton Bulwer or Bulwer Lyt- 
ton! Curious person!—How he could reconcile his 



172 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 


conscience to rhyming 'ever’ with "river 5 I cannot 
imagine! And of course his soul didn’t "rush in 
tumult 5 to any one. He was the worst husband in 
the world,—Rosina Lady Lytton led a miserable 
life with him . 55 

Sentimentalist Sylvia smiled. 

"T quite believe it!” she said. ""Poets are all 
the same—they write about love because they don’t 
feel it. If they felt it, they couldn’t write about it.” 

"‘Wise child!” And the Philosopher, with his 
most attractively kindly glance, closed the book and 
returned it to her. “You really say very apt things 
now and then!” 

She was silent. 

""It’s not a very pleasant day for sitting out in 
the garden with a book,” he went on. “Especially 
a book of verse. A book of verse demands rather 
more sunshine and a less chilly wind. Don’t you 
think so"?” 

She looked up and was pleasantly conscious of 
the agreeable smile which at times made him ap¬ 
pear almost handsome. 

“I haven’t thought about it,” she said. ""I just 
came out for a little rest in the fresh air—” 

“Ah, yes!—you are tired!—I can see that!” he 
remarked. “You do too much altogether, too much 
at the Hospital to begin with, and you add to your 
burdens by rushing down to see that old gentleman 
at his cottage who can very well look after himself 
—I mean Mr. Durham, who follows the pursuit 
of Izaak Walton. Why not leave him to the gods 
and little fishes"?” 



LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 173 

He smiled again, and spying a garden chair, 
brought it to her side and sat down upon it. 

“Why not,” he repeated affably, “leave him to 
the gods and little fishes? He is not an attractive 
person,—and he is quite likely to occupy your time 
more than he should. Perhaps you imagine him 
to be ailing in some way—but from his general 
physical contour I should say he is tough as leather 
—tougher, possibly. He’s the perfect type of a 
tanned and dried American,—self-preserved in a 
thick dollar hide!” 

A swift flush of colour swept over Sylvia’s fair 
face. 

“You mistake him,” she said, gently. “Indeed 
you do! He has a very warm heart, and he is al¬ 
ways ready to do good wherever he can. People 
think he is rich,—but he isn’t really.” 

“Oh! You think he isn’t really?” The Philos¬ 
opher pulled out his pipe and match box. “He isn’t 
really! Now—how do you know he isn’t?” 

The Sentimentalist hesitated. 

“His son told me so,” she said, at last. 

There was a pause while the Philosopher lit his 
pipe. 

“Well! A son seldom knows his father’s affairs,” 
he said, “not if the father is a wise man! And I 
should say old Durham was very wise,—almost cun¬ 
ning! That is, if I am anything of a judge of char¬ 
acter.” 

The pretty Sylvia looked at him sideways, won¬ 
dering whether he considered himself such a 
“judge.” He had all the air of a clever man, and 



174 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

just at the moment his rather worn features had 
an expression of benevolence and kindly interest 
which rendered them more than usually pleas¬ 
ing. 

“He can be quite nice and charming if he likes,” 
she thought. “But how seldom he does like!” 

“I should not wonder,” resumed the Philosopher, 
“if he were to marry.” 

Sylvia laughed. 

“Marry? Mr. Durham?—What an impossible 
idea!” 

“Nothing is impossible,” said the Philosopher, 
“to a man if he makes up his mind. Americans in 
particular are notorious for their habit of doing 
so-called ‘impossible’ things. From rolling over 
Niagara Falls in a barrel to reaching the moon by 
rocket, they assert and assume capability for creat¬ 
ing and overcoming difficulties. In affairs of mar¬ 
riage they tie and untie the knot with a celerity 
which can only be compared to the skill of the 
Davenport brothers. You have heard of those 
worthies? They used to allow themselves to be 
bound hand and foot inside a cupboard—members 
of their audience would tie the cords in the most 
frightfully exhausting manner,—and then when 
they had been fastened up as tightly as possible 
and the cupboard shut upon them, in one minute 
they stepped out untied and at liberty. An Ameri¬ 
can marriage is just like that,—you take your man 
and woman, tie them up and shut them in a cup¬ 
board—and lo!—before you know where you are 
they have stepped out, separated and free! Amaz- 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 175 

ingly clever!—and one can seldom see how the trick 
is done!” 

The Sentimentalist was amused. 

“All that may be very true,” she said, “but it 
has nothing to do with poor old Mr. Durham. The 
idea of his marrying! Whatever put such a thing 
into your head?” 

“Common sense and reason combined,” replied 
the Philosopher, blandly. “I do not want to touch 
upon a painful subject—but Mr. Durham is at the 
present time conscious of solitude,—loneliness—” 

“Ah, yes!” sighed Sylvia. “He is very lonely.” 

“Exactly! Now loneliness, though welcome and 
desirable to a man of intellectual ability, is not 
always so to persons whose intelligence appears lim¬ 
ited to the sport of fishing. It is possible to grow 
weary of rod and line if nothing else presents itself 
on the mental horizon. Even the crazed creatures 
who play golf or tennis all day and every day do 
so in a certain radius of companionship. Mr. Dur¬ 
ham appears to have no acquaintances except your 
father and yourself.” 

Sylvia thought a moment. 

“No,—he is rather mistrustful of society,” she 
said, at last. “I have often heard him say he would 
rather have no friends at all than pretended ones. 
He is very blunt—and he hates anybody or any¬ 
thing that seems insincere or hypocritical.” 

Walter Craig, F.S.A., took to his favourite amuse¬ 
ment of puffing round O’s in smoke from his mouth 
as he enjoyed his pipe. 

“Well, then, very naturally he is left to himself,” 




176 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 


he said, “because there are no human beings in the 
world who are sincere,—nobody can afford to be 
honest. To satisfy social convention you must be 
a hypocrite. Otherwise you get yourself disliked.” 

She gave a little shrug of her shoulders. 

“Does it matter?” 

“To get yourself disliked? Well, that depends 
upon circumstances. Some people get on all the 
better for being disliked—others do not. For in¬ 
stance, I am a plain-dealing man,—I speak the 
brutal truth,—therefore I am disliked.” 

She laughed a little. 

“Oh, how can you say so? Have you not often 
told me that you are amusing and clever, and that 
you are sought after because you can tell good 
stories and are witty?” 

He puffed out a very large and successful O. 

“Have I told you as much as that? All about 
myself? Dear me!” He seemed blandly surprised. 
“I have really gone very far in my confidences! 
But I don’t retract. I am amusing,—when I like. 
No one can be more so. I am never dull. Occa¬ 
sionally I am sleepy—that is, when I am bored. 
I find myself in that condition when Mr. Durham 
is here. I am never at my best in his company.” 

“I’m sorry!” said the Sentimentalist, gently* 
“He is really such a kind old man!” 

The philosopher nodded tolerantly. 

“Naturally! To you he would appear a kind 
old man. To me kind old men no longer appeal. 
I have nothing to give them. I shake my head at 
them and say ‘Go away.’ ” 




LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 177 


She smiled. 

“You really are very funny!’’ she said. “Noth¬ 
ing seems quite to please you!” 

“Why, no!—of course not!” he rejoined. “To 
be 'quite’ pleased at anything, or with anybody, 
implies a bovine spirit—a kind of animal chewing- 
of-the-cud—which eliminates the brain and is con¬ 
centrated on the stomach. I was never of that dis¬ 
position. As for the kind old man, Durham, I am 
certainly not 'quite’ pleased with him because I 
consider him too 'quite’ pleased with you!” 

She started and the book of verse she held fell 
from her hand. 

“With me?” she exclaimed. 

He stooped to pick up the book, and returned 
it to her. 

“With you,” he repeated. “I will not say that 
his 'soul rushes ever in tumult to thee,’ because I 
imagine his soul has long ago done with tumult— 
but I think he is very fond of you.” 

She suddenly perceived his drift, and her expres¬ 
sion grew cold, with a touch of hauteur. 

“I hope he is!” she said, quietly. “I wish him 
to be fond of me!” 

The Philosopher felt himself to be on rather dan¬ 
gerous ground. 

“Do you, really?” he murmured placidly. “Well! 
I’m sure your wish is realised!” He paused—then, 
with an elephantine effort at playfulness he added, 
“After all, who would not be fond of you! Even 
I am fond of you!” 

She laughed merrily. 


178 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“Even!” she echoed. “Even you!” 

“It’s a great concession for me to make—” he 
said, slowly—and his whimsical smile lighted up 
his whole face in an attractive manner. “But I 
make it freely! I find you a very lovable, charm¬ 
ing little lady—wilful certainly, yet not unpleas¬ 
antly so. Sometimes you and I have disagreed— 
have nearly quarrelled, in fact—but this has given 
zest to my feelings, and deepened your own charm. 
Dear me! My pipe has gone out!” He fumbled 
for his matches, found them, and re-lit his malodor¬ 
ous briar. “Yes—er!—what was I saying 4 ?—Deep¬ 
ened your own charm,—yes!—quite true. There¬ 
fore you must not be surprised if I rather object 
to your wasting so much of your sweetness on the 
desert air,—the desert air being a figure of speech 
for the dry and dusty personality of Mr. Durham, 
—and find him distinctly in the way.” 

A mischievous twinkle sparkled in Sylvia’s eyes. 
She pointed a small finger at him. 

“You are jealous!” she said. 

“Jealous?” He ruminated. 44 You think so? I 
have never, to my knowledge, experienced the sen¬ 
sation,—but you may be right! It would be curious 
and—er—interesting! You may perhaps recall 
that once—once upon a time—in this very garden 
—you asked me if I would like you to marry Jack 
Durham,—and I believe I answered, 4 Not just yet.’ 
You were very kind to me in those days—much 
kinder than you are now. I suppose you had not 
perceived my bad points. Anyhow, when I said 
4 Not just yet’—as applied to young Durham, I 





LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 179 


would say the same again, only more emphatically, 
with regard to old Durham—” 

She rose from her chair amazed. 

“Mr. Craig!” Her voice thrilled with vexation 
and hurt. “How can you imagine—” 

“That old Durham might wish to marry you and 
leave you the vast fortune he is rumoured to pos¬ 
sess?” finished the Philosopher, placidly. “Nothing 
more natural and simple, his son being dead—” 

She put up her hands to her ears. 

“No,” she exclaimed, with quick intensity. “He 
is not dead! I am sure of it! Please do not say 
that word again!” 

“I will not if you find it objectionable—” he said, 
gently. “But here again you allow your sentiment 
to run away with you. You imagine—or let us 
say you hope for, news that you are not likely to 
hear. I am—yes, I admit I am rather surprised 
that you concern yourself so much with that 'miss¬ 
ing’ young man.” 

She said nothing. 

“Anyway,” he resumed with a patiently resigned 
air, “you must own that Papa Durham is very at¬ 
tentive, and there is no doubt he is extremely fond 
of you. I also am very attentive—surely you notice 
that?—and I am very fond of you too!—so really 
you have nothing to complain of. Now, have you?” 

A little wistful smile quivered on her lips. 

“No!” she answered. “I should be sorry to com¬ 
plain.” 

“That’s right! You know”—here he knocked 
the ashes out of his pipe and prepared to fill it 



180 LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

afresh—“you know—or you might try to under¬ 
stand that I really want to be nice to you—” 

Her eyes sparkled mischievously. 

“Do you? Really and truly?” 

“Of course I do! Naturally I have my own ways 
of being nice; and they are not like the ways of 
ordinary people. I have seen life, and I know that 
it is rather difficult to live it,—with satisfaction 
to one’s self. For a solitary man it is hard,—but 
for a solitary woman it is harder.” 

“Yes?” There was the slightest inflection of 
doubt in her voice as she put the query. 

“Yes? Certainly, yes! Very much yes! A 
woman alone in the world occupies a perplexing 
and awkward position,—people don’t know what to 
make of her;—she is an anomaly,—neither fish, 
flesh, fowl, nor good red herring. Her solitude im¬ 
plies that she has either left some man or been left 
by him—there’s no alternative—not in the opinion 
of society.” 

“Poor society!” she said. “Its opinion is always 
very stupid and erroneous—not worth considering. 
I have heard you say so often.” 

“True!” He stroked his moustache thoughtfully 
with one hand, holding his pipe in the other and 
gazing at it as though it were a long way off. 
“But a literary man—a scholar—may say and may 
think things which do not meet with general accept¬ 
ance. He can defy convention,—a woman cannot. 
Now, suppose you are left alone in the world, have 
you ever thought what you are going to do with 
yourself?” 



LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 181 


She looked startled—the colour rushed to her 
face, then ebbed away, leaving her very pale. 

“You mean—if Dad should die,” she said, in a 
low, sad tone. “No—I have never thought—I do 
not want to think—” 

“So like a woman!” declared the Philosopher, al¬ 
most triumphantly. “Doesn’t want to think! Of 
course not! But you should think! You should 
always be ready for any event—any disagreeable 
emergency—” 

“Are you?” she asked. 

He was for a moment taken a little aback. 

“I—I think so,” he answered, slowly. “I gen¬ 
erally prepare my way to a goal of some sort and 
foresee possible obstacles—” 

Suddenly, much to his surprise, she laughed— 
one of her prettiest little laughs, clear and sweet 
as a silver bell. 

“I quite understand!” she said, while enchanting 
little dimples of mirth danced about her cheeks and 
chin. “You are preparing your way now, and you 
foresee possible obstacles! Yes!—you know you 
do! You are just wonderful!—and I want to be 
nice to you just as you want to be nice to me! 
But”—here she laid a little soft white hand on 
the amazed Philosopher’s coat-sleeve—“we won’t 
go on with it just at present, will we? There’s 
not any time! Dad will be expecting me to give 
him his medicine—and then—then I have other 
things to do!” Her bright face was radiant with 
its happy smile. “But I’m sure you mean to be 
kind and pleasant,—and—and—oh, do take ever 



182 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

so long preparing your way!—you must, you know! 
—in case—in case you should overlook some ob¬ 
stacle that might upset you very much!” 

Here she rose from her garden-chair, holding the 
condemned “book of verse” close to her breast. “It 
might be ‘the flight of a river’—or a ‘soul tumult’! 
—who can tell—!” 

He stopped her light “badinage” with a look, 
and in a sudden masterful manner, laid his hands 
on hers. 

“You are playing!” he said. “And you can play 
as long as you like. I don’t mind! But I happen 
—for once in my life—to be in earnest! However 
—as you don’t wish it—we will not go on with 
the subject—shall we call it the ‘prep 5< ? just now. 
It can wait. I can wait! We will return to it 
another day!” 

He released her hands and stood aside to let her 
pass. She looked up at him in something of won¬ 
der, not unmixed with a novel sense of admiration. 
Being “in earnest” had given him quite a new ex¬ 
pression,—some of the grim furrows in his face had 
for the moment disappeared—there was an un¬ 
wonted light in his eyes, and he smiled—a posi¬ 
tively winning smile, thus seeming less of a scholar, 
but more of a man! 


CHAPTER XII 


‘AH! There be’s many a woman wot’s ’appy to 
^ know ’er man’s gone an’ not likely to come 
back—many on ’em, I sez!—reg’lar flim-flammeries 
an’ gad-abouts wot ain’t wuth ’arf-a-crown a week 
for keep an’ yet Gov’nment lets them draw more 
money than their men wot’s doin’ the fightin’! 
Real tom-foolery that is!—I calls it settin’ a pre¬ 
mium on bigamy!” 

The individual who delivered himself of these 
oracular remarks was a certain Samuel Rikewood, 
locally known as “Riverside Sam”—because he was 
never found elsewhere than on the river or near the 
river, though up to the present he had escaped being 
in the river, which was something of a marvel. For 
he was wont to paddle about in a crazy old wherry, 
cracked in many places, and apparently out of all 
balance, looking more like a disused tub than a boat, 
and with this uneasy craft he wobbled to and fro, 
offering his services to such stray tourists and vis¬ 
itors who might seek to indulge themselves in the 
mild and meditative sport of fishing. In the pursuit 
of his chosen calling and election he made himself 
useful and necessary to old John Durham, who had 
grown to like him for the quaintness of his speech 
and bluntness of his manner, while “Riverside Sam” 
had in his turn “taken to the American man” as 

he expressed it, and more especially since sorrow 

183 


184 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

had struck him in the uncertainty which the War 
Office message of “Missing” had created in his mind 
concerning the fate of his son. Sam had liked the 
cheery and good-looking young fellow who had hu¬ 
moured his father’s whims, showing himself always 
ready to fall in with his plans whatever they were, 
whether for fishing or taking long, rambling walks 
over hill and dale, and in his unexpressive way was 
honestly grieved at the loss of the bright boyish 
spirit which had brightened the dullest day, and 
with all his heart pitied the old man left lonely. 

“It’s a bit ’ard,” he said, on one occasion, “to 
’ave to go an’ die for one’s own country, but when 
ye gits blowed to bits for a country which ain’t 
yours it’s ’arder still. Now Mister Jack ’adn’t no 
orders to go—” 

John Durham raised his hand with a silencing 
gesture. 

“Yes, he had, Sam!” he answered. “He had 
orders from his own brave soul and conscience. 
Yes,—I knew that! And, Sam!—let me tell you 
this!—if you once get that kind of orders you 
cannot—you dare not—disobey them!” 

Sam looked faintly surprised and by no means 
convinced. He returned doggedly to the point. 

“ ’Merriker ’adn’t no business to come in,” he 
said. “ ’Merriker’s got enough to do with her own 
affairs. Why, I knows a chap that went out to 
’Merriker an’ got naturalised, so he shouldn’t ’ave 
to fight!—an’ he’s divorced his wife that’s over ’ere 
an’ ain’t done nothin’ to deserve it an’ he’s livin’ 
the life of a free Injun with a blanket an’ a tub, 



LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 185 

an’ as many wimin as he can take on! Catch Hm 
fight in’!” 

Durham smiled. 

“Well! I suppose he’s happy in his own way,” 
he said. “And after all, Sam, happiness is what 
every man is after. It’s a kind of fly-fishing—you 
think you’ve got something at the end of your line, 
but when you pull in you find nothing! But we 
go on fishing all our lives long. It often seems 
rather a useless business!” 

He sighed and passed his hand through his grey 
hair. Sam looked at him sympathetically. 

“It do, sir, it do!” he agreed. “And there’s worse 
troubles than either you or I ’ave ’ad to put up with. 
There’s a pal o’ mine in the village wot is stiff 
as a poker with rheumaticks an’ ’is wife’s gone off 
it in a ’sylum—yet he was as straight an’ smart 
as you make ’em, an’ she was the merriest lass alive 
once on a time! Some of us do get it ’ot from the 
Almighty! nor knows we the reason why! That’s 
wot beats me! If the Lord would be pleased to 
speak a bit an’ say, Took ’ere, Sam, you’re a no¬ 
good anyway an’ once or twice you’ve been as drunk 
as a profiteer an’ I’m goin’ to punish ye for all ye’re 
worth!’ why then I’d answer 'Quite right too!’— 
an’ suffer the worst willin’ an’ joyful—but when 
you ain’t done nothin’ as you knows on, an’ ye 
gits beat black an’ blue, it’s a bit perplexin’. Per- 
plexin’s the word—that it is now!” 

Durham sighed again, and watched his garrulous 
companion draw in the fishing-boat to shore and 
fasten it to the moss-green and rickety stump which 



186 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

served as a sort of anchorage near his cottage. He 
was beginning to find his favourite sport monot¬ 
onous, and his rather wearied mind was stimulated 
by a sudden thrill of excitement when “Riverside 
Sam” went on slowly: 

“There’s that little lady up yonder at the Manor 
frettin’ ’er ’art out an’ makin’ ’er eyes red with 
cryin’ on the quiet, an’ we all knows wot it’s for 
though ’tain’t our place to say wot we thinks. But 
you knows as well as I knows wot’s the trouble! 
Ah, he wor a fine-lookin’ lad!—there, don’t mind 
me, sir!—I’m sorry I spoke if it ’urts ye, onny I 
can’t abide to think o’ that pretty soul ’avin’ to 
marry the old clever chap with a pipe wot’s always 
’angin’ round old Doctor Maynard—” 

“God bless me!” ejaculated Durham with amaz¬ 
ing vivacity. “He marry her! Impossible! Pre¬ 
posterous! Where did you hear such a thing men¬ 
tioned?” 

Sam straightened himself and stood up in the 
boat he was pushing to shore. 

“I ain’t heard nothing mentioned ” he said. “I 
onny puts two an’ two together an’ makes ’em four. 
T’other day the old chap comes down to the river 
edge an’ he sez, 'Good-momin’, Sam!’ 'Good- 
mornin’,’ sez I. 'Are you married?’ sez he. T am,’ 
sez I. 'An’ do you like it?’ sez he. ‘Wal, if I 
don’t like it now I never will,’ sez I. 'I’ve been 
married these forty year.’ That seemed to puzzle 
an’ bother ’im a bit for ’e sucked at ’is pipe like a 
baby at its bottle, an’ ’e sez, 'That’s a long time, 
Sam!’ I sez 'It is, sir!’ 'If I was to marry now,’ 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 187 

sez ’e, T couldn’t manage forty year—I shouldn’t 
live so long.’ That’s right!’ sez I. ‘So if you’re 
goin’ to do it you’d better lose no time!’ That 
seemed to strike ’im, an’ ’e stood thinkin’—then he 
sez, 'All right, Sam!—I’ll take your advice!’ an’ off 
’e went.” 

“Well, well!” said John Durham impatiently. 
“All this has nothing to do with Miss Maynard—” 

Sam shut up one filmy eye knowingly. 

“Don’t ye be too sure o’ that!” he chuckled. 
“There’s onny one little bird on the ground wheer 
*e is, an’ she’s worth ’avin? a shot at! Lor’, sir! 
the old boys ar£ as darin’ in matrimony as the 
young—more so, I’m thinkin’, special when there’s 
a bit of money about!” 

Durham took in all this rambling talk with no 
real conviction, yet with a certain sense of uneasi¬ 
ness. Before a couple of hours had passed he started 
to worry himself over a number of possibilities. 
He knew well enough that his son—the blithe 
young fellow now marked as “Missing” had been 
deeply in love with Sylvia Maynard, and though, 
he, as the lad’s father, had said nothing for or 
against the pretty love-idyll which he saw expand¬ 
ing under his eyes, in his own heart he approved 
of it, and rejoiced that his son’s choice had fallen 
upon so sweet and dainty a flower of pure maiden¬ 
hood. And the idea that the distinguished and 
erudite scholar, Walter Craig, F.S.A., LL.D., should 
actually entertain, even remotely, matrimonial in¬ 
tentions towards this selected “pearl of price” irri¬ 
tated him almost beyond endurance. 



188 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

‘Til speak to Maynard about it!” he resolved. 
“Obsessed as he is by his dictionary craze, I’ll make 
him give me his attention. He can’t be altogether 
such an old fool as to allow his only child’s life 
and happiness to be spoiled by such a marriage as 
this would be. Poor child! What a destiny for 
her! I’d . . . yes! ... I’d rather marry her my¬ 
self!” 

And, strengthened by this reflection, he took the 
earliest opportunity of paying an afternoon call 
on Dr. Maynard on a day when he happened to 
hear that the Philosopher had gone to London on 
one of his occasional expeditions to visit his pub¬ 
lishers. 

He found the old gentleman rather tired, rather 
irritable, and in a despondent humour generally, 
and therefore more or less pleased to see him as 
one to whom he could talk freely. 

“It’s very good of you to come,” he said, as 
he rose from his chair and shook hands. “I’m all 
alone to-day,—that is, until Sylvia comes in. 
Craig is in town.” 

“Ah!” commented Durham, gruffly. “Why don’t 
he stay there?” 

Dr. Maynard looked a trifle uneasy and embar¬ 
rassed, but answered nothing. 

“Why don’t he stay there?” Durham repeated, 
with increased asperity. “That book of yours on 
‘The Deterioration of Language’ ought to have been 
done with months ago,—only he won’t let it be 
done with! He’s a human sponge,—that’s what 
he is. You’re paying him for his work—” 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 189 


“Not as much as he could demand if he liked,” 
interrupted the old Doctor, quickly. “He’s really 
giving me the benefit of his great scholarship for 
a mere song in regard to terms—I couldn’t afford 
to pay him his just price,—the price he could get 
anywhere—” 

“But you throw in food and lodging,” said Dur¬ 
ham. “Food of the best and lodging of the greatest 
comfort. You also throw in the companionship of 
your pretty daughter and allow him to make love 
to her!” 

“I don’t! ... I don’t!” exclaimed Maynard, 
excitedly. “I know he admires the child—” 

“You bet he does!” and Durham wrinkled up 
his forehead in a saturnine frown. “And also ad¬ 
mires the house she lives in and the fortune you 
are likely to leave her! You bet! He wasn’t made 
a sponge for nothing. His business is to soak up 
things. He has soaked up enough learning; and 
now he wants to soak up a few creature comforts 
for his old age! Maynard, keep your eyes open!” 

“I do, I do!” exclaimed the poor old scholar, 
in evident distress. “But I can’t help it if Craig 
falls in love with the girl, can I 4 ?” 

“Falls in love? He? That pragmatical, self- 
conscious, learned prig! He couldn’t fall in love 
if he tried—I don’t suppose he ever has tried, not 
even when he was young, if he ever was young! 
I could do the business better myself!” 

Maynard sank back in his chair, amazed. 

“You!” he murmured, faintly. “You! God 
bless my soul!” 



190 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

Durham’s small, steely, grey eyes sparkled with 
a monkeyish glitter. 

“Well, what now?” he demanded. “Why do 
you cry out ‘God bless my soul’ as if I had sent 
a bullet through you? I say I could do the falling 
in love business better than Craig—” 

Dr. Maynard lifted a hand and pointed a shak¬ 
ing finger at him. 

“That’s just what Craig told me!” he faltered. 
“And he said you were doing it!” 

“He did, did he?” and Durham’s rather sallow 
countenance reddened. “Damn his impudence!” 

Old Maynard looked at him protestingly. 

“Don’t—don’t be violent!” he said, anxiously. 
“It’s bad for you! We are both old men—” 

“And don’t we know it?” snapped out Durham 
raspily. “But we needn’t dwell on the fact! 
There’s a third old man who is older than either 
of us—” 

“Not in years, if you mean Craig,” put in May¬ 
nard. “He is considered—and he considers him¬ 
self—in the prime of life.” 

Durham laughed—a little cross, crackling laugh. 

“ ‘A violet in the youth of primy nature,’ I sup¬ 
pose!” he said. “Now, look here, Maynard! Put¬ 
ting all nonsense aside, do you really mean to make 
a miserable martyr of your daughter—your only 
child—by marrying her to Professor Craig?” 

A little smile, half pathetic, half humorous lifted 
the wrinkles round the old Doctor’s eyes. 

“You’d rather marry her yourself, wouldn’t 
you?” he said gently. “Just—for Jack’s sake!” 




LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 191 

Impulsively Durham’s hand fell on that of May¬ 
nard—and they gripped together in a clasp more 
eloquent than words. Then Durham spoke in a 
voice which he tried to keep steady, but which now 
and then trembled in spite of himself. 

“For Jack’s sake,” he said, “I would do a great 
deal! I thought it all out last night. I was always 
a bit hard on the boy—drove him with a bearing 
rein—but he never complained. I’m sorry now! 
I know he just worshipped your girl—and if I could 
save her from that old Dry-as-Dust, I’d marry her 
and keep her sacred like an angel in a shrine till— 
till Jack comes home! A sort of marriage by proxy, 
you know! And then—when he returns, I could 
easily make myself scarce—get out of the way 
quietly—no publicity—no fuss—just a little dose— 
and a long go-to-bye-bye—” 

“My dear old fellow!” exclaimed Maynard, 
deeply moved. “Don’t talk that way! You’ve 
been worrying yourself, and you’re unnerved! I 
tell you what!—I think we are two old fools to¬ 
gether,—in this matter we are forgetting the girl 
herself—Sylvia. We are disposing of her as if she 
had no will of her own! But I give you my word 
she’s not disposed of so easily! Let things take 
their course! She’s no more likely to marry Craig 
than you! Not a bit of it! God bless my soul! 
I don’t think I’m altogether finished yet—and I, 
too, have a will of my own!—” 

“j Have you*?” interposed Durham, with a touch 
of cynicism, yet smiling a little. “And—if you 
have, do you exert it*?” 





192 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“Well, well! Perhaps not, perhaps not! Per¬ 
haps I’m rather bound hand and foot by the gout 
—but I’m quite capable of making an effort should 
necessity arise. Just now, believe me, there’s no 
necessity. If Craig were to propose to my girl she’d 
refuse him point-blank. I shouldn’t mind his try¬ 
ing his luck . . .” 

“You wouldn’t mind 4 ?” echoed Durham, indig¬ 
nantly. “You’d let him make love to her?” 

A twinkling smile lit up Maynard’s old eyes. 

“He couldn't make love!” he answered. “He 
wouldn’t know how! And I’d let him try, because 
he’d make such a fool of himself! And Sylvia is 
the very girl to show him his folly and take the 
conceit out of him! That would do him good! 
Clever as he is there’s no doubt he’s conceited. It 
wouldn’t hurt him to put his pride down a peg 
or two!” 

“Maynard,” said Durham, solemnly, “you might 
as soon detach the bones from a live herring as get 
the conceit out of that Professor of yours! Why, 
man, his self-satisfaction is his life!—his blood, his 
veins, his marrow!—and if he proposed to your girl 
and she refused him, it would make no more effect 
on him than the pressure of a finger-nail on a fos¬ 
sil! He would merely say that she is a fool, and 
he the wise man and hero of a lucky escape!” 

Dr. Maynard laughed. The conversation with 
his American friend had roused and amused him 
—his interest was awakened by the movement of 
the little romance playing round the attractive per¬ 
sonality of his pretty daughter, and he felt brighter. 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 193 

better and younger (because less absorbed in him¬ 
self) than he had for many a long day. 

“Very likely you are right!” he said. “We’ll 
leave it all at that—and—to Sylvia! She’ll settle 
the matter better than either you or I! And I—I 
—think she was fond of your son Jack!” 

“Is fond,” corrected Durham. “Not was — is!” 

“Is!” agreed Maynard, gently. “And if she is 
fond of Jack she’s not likely to change her mind 
—in his absence.” 

Durham looked at him steadily. 

“That’s true!” he said. “She’s a loyal little soul 
—she’s not likely to change. Not likely! Un¬ 
less—” 

“Unless—we will not speculate on unless!” said 
Maynard cheerfully. “We will hope for the best 
—and leave things as they are for the present— 
to God!—and to Sylvia!” 


CHAPTER XIII 


A ND now the Sentimentalist became, uncon- 
^ sciously to herself, the central figure of a curi¬ 
ous little drama, wherein three elderly gentlemen 
were the active performers, with a mystic Shadow 
in the background,—the shadow of a personality 
which, though considered as “Missing,” neverthe¬ 
less remained a vital part of the play. A dreary 
autumn and still drearier winter had passed, and 
spring half-tearful, half-smiling had begun to dress 
the trees in tiny rosette-buds of green,—some early 
mating thrushes were piping their joyous love-notes 
among the growing greenness of copse and hedge, 
—and with these signs of hope came rumours of 
the speedy ending of the long and wicked war in 
a victory for England and her Allies. “Too good 
to be true,” was the verdict of the pessimists on 
these flying reports; but they had the effect of cheer¬ 
ing depressed people and awakening renewed heart 
for fresh effort. Old Dr. Maynard had become 
wonderfully alert and vivacious of late,—his gout 
troubled him less, and his famous “Deterioration 
of Language” was positively nearing completion. 
Fewer wounded arrived at the V.A.D. Hospital 
where Sylvia gave her services, and she had much 
more time on her hands than she cared to have, 
owing to the fact that whenever he perceived her 

alone and at leisure the Philosopher, like the fat- 

194 



LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 195 


uous hero of “The Children of the Forest,” that 
ancient novel he despised, “pursued her” and seemed 
to consider that whenever she had nothing else to 
do she was bound to talk to him, or at least to allow 
him to talk to her . And he noticed, with a certain 
odd self-congratulation, that she avoided him,— 
quite gently, but no less decisively. He thought he 
knew why, and flattered himself singularly on what 
he imagined to be his discovery. 

“She is just a little frightened,” he said to him¬ 
self. “Quite natural—quite proper! IPs much 
better that a woman should be timid about a pro¬ 
posal of marriage than that she should hurl herself 
at it like a bull in a china shop! I can’t say she is 
encouraging—she doesn’t lead me on—in fact she 
rather puts me off! But that’s so like a woman!— 
always doing the very reverse of what she wishes 
to do!” 

So he argued, in the spirit of that profound mascu¬ 
line egotism which is the heritage of every “lord of 
creation,” whether it be the rowdy of a motor char- 
a-bancs, or the self-contained intellectual of Uni¬ 
versity honours and degrees. Every man grown to 
manhood is confident that he understands women,— 
absolutely confident even when, among his peers, he 
declares them to be incomprehensible. Of his power 
to please and subdue them he never has a doubt. 
The fallacy is inherited from the days of pre-historic 
savagery, and savagery is not by any means yet over” 
come by civilisation. 

One rather chilly evening, when despite the melo¬ 
dious assurances of a thrush singing outside the win- 


196 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

dow, one felt that a nip of winter had returned to 
provoke the sweet temper of the spring, the Philoso¬ 
pher found the Sentimentalist nestled in a chair by a 
sparkling fire in the cosy drawing-room, peacefully 
working at a dainty strip of floral embroidery. A 
branch of wild roses was visibly blossoming under 
the swift manipulation of her little white fingers, 
and the glitter of her tiny gold thimble flashed like 
the gleam of the sun on the growing flowers. She 
made a pretty picture as she sat, the flames of the 
fire now and again touching into more vivid colour 
the warm amber of her hair and the pale blue of her 
dress,—she was always a pretty picture, but some¬ 
how on this particular evening the Philosopher 
thought she made a prettier one than usual. As he 
approached she looked up and smiled,—she did not 
rise and go away as had been rather her habit of late. 
This was an encouraging sign,—and yet, strange to 
say, the distinguished man of letters became sud¬ 
denly and uncomfortably conscious of “nerves.” 
With an effort he mastered them, and selecting an 
easy chair which he had frequently tried before 
and found satisfactory, he drew it and himself up 
to the fire and stretched out his legs with a sigh of 
deep content. 

“Heigh-ho!” and he turned the sigh into some¬ 
thing of a yawn. “This is very comfortable! 
There’s a detestable east wind whizzing round the 
house—nothing like an east wind for prying into 
every corner—and it’s much pleasanter inside than 
out. This room is the very abode of comfort!—an 
"interior’ of perfect domestic bliss!” 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 197 

The pretty smile deepened and dimpled round the 
kissable mouth of the Sentimentalist but she said 
nothing. Her needle twinkled faster among the wild 
roses she embroidered. 

“Your father seems wonderfully better,” pursued 
the Philosopher, thoughtfully. “He is much more 
mentally keen and observant. He takes greater in¬ 
terest in things that are purely mundane.” 

She looked up. 

“I’m so glad!” she said. “Poor, dear Dad! He 
was really too taken up with ‘The Deterioration of 
Language’—don’t you think so 4 ? I mean, he seemed 
to treat it too seriously!—because, after all, it 
doesn’t very much matter!” 

“Doesn’t it?” The Philosopher gave her an 
amused, half-tolerant glance. “Not perhaps in 
your opinion! But you are a woman—and young— 
and your ideas are necessarily limited. You see noth¬ 
ing to deplore in the breaking-down of fine forms of 
speech—which are really as necessary to the status 
of a people as fine forms of conduct and manner—” 

She stopped her sewing and listened, needle in 
hand. 

“Fine forms of conduct and manner,” he pro¬ 
ceeded, with an academical air. “The inroads of 
slang upon the splendid English used by our fore¬ 
fathers are rather like the vulgar rush of noisy, half- 
tipsy folk into a beautiful garden full of well-kept 
trees and flowers. Dr. Maynard is quite right in 
his views.” 

“Oh, yes, I am sure of that!” said Sylvia quickly 
and eagerly. “But do you really think it is any use 


198 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

for him to teach, or try to teach people these higher 
views of life and language when they all show so 
plainly that they don’t want to learn?” 

He bent his brows kindly upon her, with a smile. 

“Well, if you come to that,” he answered. 
“Nothing is of any use! Neither language nor lit¬ 
erature! I’m sorry to state the fact, but fact it is. 
Civilisation itself is no use. History will convince 
you of that. What has become of Babylon, Nine¬ 
veh, Thebes? They all had language and literature 
doubtless,—no use! You see? If once you begin 
to question the uses of any learning you run up 
against the blank wall of positive negation!” 

She looked up. 

“Ah, that is only your way of looking at it!” she 
said. “It is your philosophy!” 

“It is every man’s philosophy if he is a philoso¬ 
pher at all,” he replied. “Nothing can alter facts 
—facts which are proven and plain. A bit of Egyp¬ 
tian papyrus scrawled with hieroglyphs speaks more 
eloquently for ‘The Deterioration of Language’ than 
a thousand of our printed volumes.” 

She drew a quick little sigh. 

“Oh, dear me!” she murmured. “It is all very 
sad! In your outlook on life nothing seems good 
or commendable! What’s the good of living at 
all!” 

He turned towards her, his eyes twinkling with 
unusual pleasantness. 

“Dear child, I often ask myself that question!” 
he said. “And as yet I have found no answer. 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 199 

None of us asked to be born! Had I been consulted 
I should certainly have declined the honour! But 
there are certain compensations afforded us for the 
trouble of existence,—as I told you once before, we 
are allowed to experience pleasurable sensations 
which we call by pretty names—such as idealism, 
patriotism, conscience, honour, friendship, and—and 
love. I suppose”—here he hesitated—“I suppose 
love is really the most agreeable sensation of all! 
You remember when you quoted some lines of Keats 
to me on one occasion, you seemed to think so!” 

“I think so still,” she replied, softly. 

“I’m sure you do! You are unchanged in your 
sentiment—and for yourself it is a pity! But you 
are a woman, and it cannot be helped! Women 
overdo sentiment altogether—they live on it! A 
mistake—and yet—” 

He stopped abruptly. 

She looked at him. 

“And yet 4 ?” she suggested. 

“And yet 4 ? Well, I was about to say I should not 
like a woman without sentiment. For example,—if 
I had any sentiment for her, I should wish her to 
have sentiment for me!” 

She laughed softly. 

“Why, of course! Naturally!” 

He moved a little uneasily. 

“Do you think it at all possible 4 ?” 

“What 4 ?” 

“For a woman to have sentiment for me 4 ?” 

A pretty rose-flush coloured her cheeks. 


200 LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“When you are your best self, yes! Certainly!’' 
she said with a quick frankness. “But when you are 
your worst self, no!” 

He smiled,—he was amused. 

“You can say that to every human being,” he 
averred. “I can say it to you! When you are on 
level ground, sweetly normal, you are a most en¬ 
gaging little lady—but when you are on your high 
horse—well, well! But after all, you seldom take 
a very long prance on that tall quadruped!” 

Her blue eyes flashed,—but she made no reply. 

“You object to any mention of the high horse?” 
he said, and his voice had a kind tone that was al¬ 
most irresistible. Turning her head towards him she 
could not help smiling,—he had one of his attractive 
moods on, and his features, always intellectual, were 
softened and made almost good-looking by an ex¬ 
pression of tender solicitude seldom seen upon them. 

“I object to nothing you wish to say,” she an¬ 
swered, gently. 

“How charming of you! Ah!” and he sighed. 
“If that were always the case—if it were only true!” 

He broke off. His heart was not given to inordi¬ 
nate fluttering, but he felt it distinctly fluttering just 
then. He waited a couple of minutes to recover 
himself. She had resumed her swift sewing, and her 
little gold thimble flashed to and fro like a tiny 
star. The logs in the bright fire crackled and 
sparkled,—one of them falling into a brilliant flame. 
He straightened himself in his chair, and, as it were, 
pulled himself together. 

“Returning to the subject of your father’s impor- 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 201 

tant work,” he said, slowly, “I think it will soon be 
finished.” 

“Really!” she exclaimed. “How glad I shall be!” 

“Will you? Yes—I suppose you will! But—I 
shall be sorry!” 

She paused in her sewing and looked at him 
kindly. 

“It’s nice of you to say so,” she said. “For I’m 
sure you must have been tired of it often! And 
tired of us, too! We must seem so monotonous to 
a clever man like you!” 

He considered this observation with a thoughtful 
air,—then smiled. 

“No,” he averred, with an air of tolerance. 
“No. Strange to say, though I find most things 
monotonous I have not found you so!” Here he 
laughed quite pleasantly. “Dear child, whatever 
your faults, sameness is not one of them! You are 
as variable—as—as an English summer!” 

Her eyes sparkled merrily. 

“Thanks ever so much!” she said. “I should hate 
to be always in one humour!” 

“It would be dull—undoubtedly it would be 
dull!” admitted the Philosopher. “Safe certainly— 
but dull! Unalterable good temper,—what? It 
might be trying! After about a year of it, one might 
welcome a little flash—just a leetle flash of anger!” 

He paused. She said nothing. Presently he re¬ 
sumed. 

“Yes—you are very variable! Yet—at the same 
time you are equable. That sounds very paradoxical, 
doesn’t it?” 



202 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 


“Perhaps it does!” she admitted. 

“A paradox is that which though appearing to be 
contradictory is nevertheless true,” he continued, 
amicably. “And according to that definition I my¬ 
self am a paradox.” 

She laughed. 

“Are you 4 ?” 

“I think so! I am very generally misunderstood. 
Even you misunderstand me.” 

She laid down her work and looked at him. 

“Do I? Oh, I am very sorry!” 

He gave a little nervous cough. 

“Thank you! I do not suppose you can help 
yourself—all women judge by appearances. I am 
not an Adonis—never was,—and I’m getting old— 
and I confess to an irritability of temper occasion¬ 
ally—” 

Her tenderly sympathetic nature sprang up at 
once to defend him against his own indictment. 

“Oh, but you are not often disagreeable!” she 
said, in the frankest manner. “You can be per¬ 
fectly charming if you like! When you first came 
to stay with us and help Dad I thought you a per¬ 
fectly delightful man!—so brilliant and companion¬ 
able !” 

“Ah, those were in the early days!” he said, with 
a sigh. “The golden days of first acquaintance! 
You were very kind to me then,—though we had 
our little differences! But you didn’t mind helping 
me to light my pipe,—do you remember 4 ?—and once 
we had a pleasant walk across the fields. And you 
talked a great deal about love—” 



LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 203 


“That was before the war !’ 7 she interposed. 

“Before the war? Of course—certainly! Every¬ 
thing worth having was before the war,—love, hope, 
confidence —before the war—the world was better 
to live in before the war. I grant you all that! 
We can, if we feel disposed to be poetical, look back 
and see a happy garden of Eden in England before 
the war—but now the gates are closed and a sword 
turns every way forbidding re-entrance!” 

“Ah, you do think that!” she said. 

“Naturally I do. And naturally I must. It does 
not actually surprise me, for war is a devastator of 
minds and morals. You thought me very harsh and 
unsympathetic at the time war was declared—and 
I know you considered me unpatriotic. Well, if it 
is unpatriotic to dislike the idea of men being slaugh¬ 
tered like animals in a meat-packer’s factory all for 
the pleasure of rival governments I am unpatriotic, 
and glory in the fact! I have no sentiment on these 
matters. The waving of a flag does not excite me— 
I don’t think any man should fight for any other 
man. Let each one manage his own business.” 

She was silent. 

“You don’t like my point of view?” he queried, 
after a pause. 

“I think you have a great deal of right and sense 
on your side,” she said, slowly. “But if nations did 
not fight for their existence where would they 
be?” 

“They would settle down,” said the Philosopher, 
complacently. “Believe me they would settle down! 
It’s all a repetition of the Cain and Abel story—one 




204 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

brother is jealous of the other and commits murder. 
Why should such a precedent be maintained?” 

“Why, indeed?” she murmured. 

“We were all happy enough and contented enough 
before the war,” pursued the Philosopher. “And we 
were immoral enough. If the war was intended to 
punish us for our immorality, it has failed in effect, 
for we are much more immoral now.” 

She began to work again at her embroidery, keep¬ 
ing her eyes bent upon it. The Philosopher did not 
pursue the theme he had started; in some subtle way 
he was made aware that immorality was not a sub¬ 
ject on which to engage the attention of the Senti¬ 
mentalist. There are very few men who, in the pres¬ 
ence of real purity and refinement expressed in a 
woman’s personality, do not hesitate to bring for¬ 
ward topics which however reasonable, are at the 
same time questionable in taste. With a mannish, 
smoking woman the Philosopher would have swung 
into brilliant diatribes concerning sex and its de¬ 
mands, but with this sweet, composed, dainty little 
lady of sentiment, he was not sure of his ground, 
especially in the immediate state of his own emo¬ 
tions. Emotions? Had he any? It seemed so,— 
anyway he was beginning to feel as if he had. 

“Yes,” he said, deliberately. “You were very 
kind to me before the war. Before the war I 
scratched my hand among your rose-bushes, and you 
—you kissed the place and made it well! You may 
forget that generous action—” 

“Oh, no!” she interrupted, laughingly. “I re¬ 
member it! I would do it again!” 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 205 

He straightened himself in his chair with an 
abrupt movement. 

“You would? You would do it again?” 

“Of course I would! Why shouldn’t I? Espe¬ 
cially if you were frightened, and thought you were 
going to be blood-poisoned!” 

He regarded her with a smile. 

“I was not frightened!” he said. “I did not think 
I was going to be blood-poisoned! I’m not such a 
fool! I only wanted you to be—to be—” 

Her eyes sparkled a trifle mischievously. 

“To be—to be—what?” she asked. 

“Kind to me!” 

“Well, and was I not kind?” 

“You were! And I want you to be kind to me 
now!” 

She looked at him half-timidly, half-warningly. 

“And am I not so?” 

“You are—you are!” and the erudite Walter 
Craig, F.S.A., became all at once confused, and felt 
an extraordinary furnace-like heat flushing his face. 
“But—but—but not quite kind enough! I want 
you to be kinder—I want you to—to—” 

She dropped her embroidery suddenly, and rising 
came over to him in the prettiest way imagina¬ 
ble and knelt beside him like a child asking a 
favour. 

“I know—I know!” she said, softly and coax- 
ingly. “But don’t say what you want!—like a good, 
kind man, don’t say it!” 

His eyes opened wide in amazement. He stooped 
towards her and took her hand in his own. 








206 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“Don’t say it?” he echoed. “Why—why 

shouldn’t I say it?” 

Her sweet face lightened with an expression of 
tenderness, regret and sympathy all commingled. 

“Because it’s so much better not to!” she declared. 
“You are such a clever, clever man!—and I’m such 
a silly little woman!—but all the same let us be 
friends! Oh, you know what I mean!” 

Yes, he knew! And his heart gave a big “dunt” 
in his chest, of nervous disappointment and chagrin, 
yet—with those frank blue eyes looking trustfully 
into his own, he could but respond to their confi¬ 
dence. He pressed the little hand he held more 
closely and smiled. As already hinted, his smile 
was particularly attractive, and just now with a 
touch of pathos in it was more so than ever. 

“I think I do!” he replied. “But I don’t like 
'hedging.’ I’m a bit of a coward in most things,— 
but when the worst comes to the worst or the best 
to the best, I’d rather face the music than run away. 
I know what I want; and you know what I want. 
I want to marry you!” 

There was a tense pause. She still knelt at his 
feet,—still looked sweetly up into his face, but she 
said nothing. 

“And,” he continued, steadily, “you don’t want 
to marry me! There! It’s all out! Isn’t it?” 

She smiled. 

“Not quite!” she said. “I do know you want to 
marry me—and—when I first knew you—I rather 
fancied—yes!—I thought I should like to marry 





LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 207 


“You did?—you did?” he exclaimed, a wave of 
extraordinary youthfulness sweeping over him. 

She held up a small warning finger. 

“Yes, I did!” she averred. “You seemed so clever 
—and so kind! But—but—when the kindness was 
lost in the cleverness—then—then I thought dif¬ 
ferently !” 

He withdrew his hand from hers, and a shadow 
darkened his features. 

“You see,” she went on, in gentle coaxing accents, 
“when you first came here to help Dad, you were 
charming!—yes, perfectly charming! And I took 
you for walks to all the pretty places about here, 
and we got on so well together that I used to say 
to myself, what an honour it would be if such a 
brilliant man were to care enough for me to marry 
me! Yes, I really did! But when, little by little, 
you dropped the 'company manners’ as children say, 
and showed me another side altogether, I felt then 
that you were too brilliant !—too clever to be always 
kind to a silly little woman like myself whose 'senti¬ 
ment’ always outruns her brains. And I—I think” 
—her voice sank softly—“that in marriage kindli¬ 
ness is better than cleverness.” 

He did not speak. She ventured to touch his hand 
in a caressing way as a child might do. 

“I like you very much still!” she said. “I don’t 
mind your sarcasm as much as I did—and when you 
say rough things I try to forget them. But if I 
were married to you I don’t think I could forget 
them! They would hurt! And when you are sar¬ 
castic you can be very rude! Yes, indeed! And I 







208 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

would not be able to stand that either! Because, 
as you have often said, I ‘overdo the sentiment/ and 
if I loved you, and you were unkind, I should be 
utterly miserable! So what a fortunate thing it is 
that I don't love you and wouldn't marry you for 
all the world!—and that I just ‘like 5 you, and ad¬ 
mire you as a very, very clever man! For so we can 
always be the best of friends!” 

“Cold comfort, applied with sweet eloquence!” 
said the Philosopher, rousing himself from his mo¬ 
mentary abstraction. “I understand! And you may 
be right! My experience of men and things has not 
mellowed my disposition—I have grown a crust upon 
myself, and honestly, I enjoy my own crustiness. 
But you, dear child!—if you only made more allow¬ 
ance for this, you would find it is all on the surface, 
and only on the surface. Now you have been per¬ 
fectly frank with me up to a certain point,—why do 
you not declare at once honestly the real obstacle 
that prevents your marrying me? Why?” 

She was silent. Her head drooped, and he stroked 
her bright hair. 

“Why?” he repeated, in a tone of bland argu¬ 
ment. “I don’t think I should make a bad husband, 
I should have my ‘moods’ undoubtedly—and I 
should expect them to be humoured and tolerated. 
And you—you would most certainly mount your 
‘high horse’ occasionally, and I should permit you 
to prance upon it like a child on rockers till you 
were tired. You would soon be tired, and so should 
I! But I would take every care of you—I am old 
enough to fill your father’s place should he be taken 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 209 

from you, and I could give you a position in cultured 
society—not the society of American millionaires, 
but the society of art and letters. And I would 
promise not to be 'rude’ or 'sarcastic’ more than I 
could possibly help—” 

She rose from her pretty appealing attitude at his 
knee, and smiling, shook her head at him regretfully. 

“Ah, you would never be able to help it!” she 
said. “It is your nature! I should have fallen in 
love with you if it hadn’t been!” 

Goaded to retort by her tone, and more or less 
vexed at the airy aloofness of her figure as she stood 
upright now and a little apart from him, he said: 

“If it hadn’t been*? You mean if it hadn’t been— 
for Jack!” 


CHAPTER XIV 


S HE raised her eyes and looked at him full and 
frankly. 

“Yes,” she said simply, and there was a thrill of 
pain in her gentle voice. “I should have put that 
first. If it hadn’t been for Jack!” 

And now the criss-cross pattern of the Philoso¬ 
pher’s awkward temperament began to urge itself 
into prominence. He made a feeble effort to assume 
a patience which he did not possess, and only suc¬ 
ceeded in pricking up the ugly little lines of satire 
which ran through his nature as the veins run through 
a leaf. He gave a short cough and a sniff in one. 

“I thought as much!” he remarked. “And I won¬ 
dered why you didn’t mention it at once. However 
—now you have mentioned it, may I, dare I ask 
whether you were engaged to that ‘missing’ young 
man ?” 

She kept her eyes steadily fixed upon him. 

“No. I was not engaged.” 

“Not engaged? Then—pardon me!—but why 
should his ghost stand in the way?” 

A little tremor seemed to pass over her like a cold 
wind. 

“Not his ghost—oh, no!” she murmured. “He is 

not dead—I am sure he is not dead!” 

The Philosopher twisted himself round in his chair 

with a movement of irritation. 

210 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 211 


“How can you be sure?” he demanded. “You go 
by sentiment as usual! All wrong! Facts are the 
only props to lean on. When the War Office de¬ 
clares a man is ‘missing’ in this deplorable war, facts 
plainly point out the evidence that he is dead. You 
don’t want to believe it of course—your ‘sentiment’ 
refuses to believe it; but sentiment is a false guide 
—especially for women. It leads them into a morass 
of mistaken ideals and—and—er—wasted affec¬ 
tion.” 

“Yes,” she said, simply. “I am very wrong, I 
know—and you are—you must be—always right.” 

His eyelids twitched with a quiver of irritation. 

“Is that sarcastic?” he asked. 

She started. 

“Sarcastic? Oh, no! Did it seem so? I’m 
sorry!” 

“You need not be sorry,” he said equably. “It is 
only your usual way of leaving facts for fiction. 
You are not ‘very wrong’—you are merely senti¬ 
mental ; and I am not, nor am I bound to be, ‘always 
right’—I am only endowed with a little common 
sense. And my common sense protests against your 
posing as a sort of war widow.” 

He had scarcely said this when he would have 
given a great deal not to have said it. Her glance 
swept over him with an expression of regret, pain, 
anger and pity all commingled in one bright flash. 
She moved away from him and resumed her seat, 
bending her head anew over her embroidery to hide 
the tears that despite her efforts had sprung to her 
eyes at the rough touch he had laid on a smarting 




212 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

wound. Annoyed with himself—he nevertheless 
went on in the track suggested by his evil demon— 
“A war widow is an interesting personality,” he 
said, in rasping tones. “I grant you that! Just now 
she is the ‘rage’—the pivot of smart society! She 
gets herself up in the most attractive way—wears 
the most enchanting headgear adorned with a long, 
flowing, airy, black veil, and when she has a pretty 
face looks a pathetic picture. And she goes on pos¬ 
ing with the pathos and the veil, till she finds an¬ 
other man to replace the one she has lost. All very 
natural and nice! But I don’t see why you should 
‘pose’ in the fashionable attitude! You were not 
engaged to the missing Jack—and if we take it for 
granted—as we must—that he is dead, you have no 
occasion to seek for some one in his stead. You 
have the offer of a husband who would be kind to 
you and protect you to the utmost of his power— 
who would love you—” 

She looked up, her eyes wet and sorrowful. 

“Ah, no!” she said in a thrilling voice. “Not 
love! You do not know what love is or you would 
not hurt me!” 

He was taken aback for a moment—her accents 
were so plaintive. 

“Have I hurt you^” And he was conscious of 
a sense of shame. “Really 4 ? Well—I apologise! 
Of course you think me a clumsy brute—I dare say 
I am—I can’t help myself—” 

“You could help yourself!” she said, almost pas¬ 
sionately. “Yes, you could if you tried! You could 
help being cruel! You are cruel in your cold, sharp 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 213 

words I—your cynical estimate of all that makes life 
worth living! As for Jack, if you had once realised 
the awfulness of war—if you could, with all your 
cleverness, reading and learning, get imagination 
enough to picture him or any other brave young man 
lying dead on the battle-held, half trampled in mud, 
all the beautiful, gay, strong spirit of him gone for 
ever,—oh!—you surely would have some sort of 
feeling!—even for me! —for his poor father!—you 
would not, could not put it aside as a light matter 
for ill-placed jesting! You know—yes, you know 
very well that I would never ‘pose’ as a war widow, 
—so why do you say such an unkind thing?” 

Her sweet face, quivering with suppressed pain 
moved him more than her words. He rose from his 
comfortable chair, stretched himself and smiled,— 
then came over to her where she sat. 

“We are getting melodramatic,” he said, “and 
that will never do! As I before said, I apologise! 
You are not a war widow. And you will not 'pose’ 
as one. Good! That’s settled. You will put the 
missing Jack in a shrine of your own fancy and sur¬ 
round his image with the incense of a sentimental 
faith. And you will not marry me? No, certainly 
not! Not yet! But—perhaps—some day! I do 
not lose hope—I am not disheartened! Dear child, 
I am very sorry to have said anything to vex you— 
try to forget it! But when you are calm again— 
when you are quite normal—I want you to think 
quietly to yourself—think sensibly in a perfectly 
matter-of-fact way—that life is not as the vulgar put 
it 'all beer and skittles’—nor is it all honey and 


214 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

roses, and women have more or less a difficult time 
of it if they are alone in the world. They ought to 
be treated kindly; but they are not. Now I offer 
myself as a sort of wall,—the kind of wall through 
which Pyramus and Thisbe—(that is to say, Senti¬ 
ment and Folly) may just peer at intervals—a wall 
against which you may lean without any fear of 
knocking it down. A wall is not a pretty thing—but 
it is sometimes useful. In short”—here he very 
gently laid his hand on her bent head—“I am here 
if you want me,—I don’t hesitate to say that I shall 
be glad if you do want me!—but,—if you don’t— 
why then I must just grin and bear it!—and do my 
best to be unselfish!” 

A sudden surprise smote her, touched with re¬ 
morse. There were “points” in his curious tempera¬ 
ment and character which she had not recognised, 
and to which she had scarcely done justice. One 
of these “points” was that being selfish he knew 
that he had that failing. It is a great achievement 
for any man, especially a “philosopher,”—to know 
and to recognise his chief fault, even while still 
persisting in it. She looked up from under the touch 
of his hand on her head and smiled. 

“What a pleasant man you might be if you liked!” 
she said, impulsively. “Only—” 

“Only I don’t like!” he finished, placidly. “Quite 
true! I don’t like ‘being pleasant.’ You see I’ve 
journeyed fairly well on in life and my experience 
has proved to me that so-called ‘pleasant’ people are 
generally consummate bores and wholly devoid of 
intelligence. They are generally cowards too,—in a 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 215 

moral sense. That is to say that they would rather 
be 'pleasant' than honest. Now I would rather be 
honest than pleasant. You see'?” He smiled. 
"And that’s why I’m rude, crusty,—and selfish!” 

She could not bear to hear him running himself 
down in this way, and impulsively rising from her 
chair she laid both her little hands on his. 

"No, you’re not!” she declared. "I won’t have 
you say so! You’re a very charming man,—or you 
can be—if you choose!—and I dare say I have often 
misunderstood you. And perhaps—perhaps you’ll 
marry some nice woman some day—and you’ll have 
to be always charming then!—for her sake!” 

He laughed outright. 

"I think I see myself at it!” he said. “Charming 
for her sake!—the 'nice woman’! Oh, ye gods! My 
dear child, have you ever thought what a 'nice 
woman’ is, in the full meaning of that common 
term'? A man flies from her as from the plague! 
Propriety and commonplace in one! You’re not a 
'nice woman’!—if you were—” 

She echoed his laughter, still resting her hands on 
his. 

"If I were, what then*?” 

"Why then”—and his voice vibrated with an emo¬ 
tion he really felt—"I should never have grown so 
fond of you as I am nor should I have dared to ask 
you to marry me as I have done!” 

Poor little Sentimentalist! The grave tenderness 
of his tone made her gentle heart beat quickly—she 
looked up and met his eyes bent down upon her with 
a protective kindness that was wonderfully moving; 



216 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

—she could not help being touched by the thought 
that this “clever” man, this light of a literary 
“clique” actually found her lovable; and for the mo¬ 
ment all his odd brusqueries, rudenesses and cynic¬ 
isms were forgotten. Almost—yes!—almost she 
could have loved him! The swift doubt crossed her 
brain,—was she wise to refuse him? Her thoughts 
seemed drifting to and fro like leaves in a storm,— 
then, all suddenly she stooped and kissed one of the 
hands on which her own lay. 

“I cannot kiss the place and make it well!” she 
said in a tremulous little way. “For I suppose 'the 
place’ this time is in your heart!—or you would say 
so! But do please believe that I am very grateful 
for your affection!—and—and—that I am deeply 
sensible of the honour you have done me!” 

He drew his hands away from hers. 

“That’s like a bit of Jane Austen,” he said. 
“Prosy Jane Austen whom all the critics have agreed 
to praise because she can no longer gain any advan¬ 
tage from their approval! I suppose you know,— 
you ought to if you don’t,—that, nine out of ten of 
the so-called 'literary’ oracles haven’t read a line of 
Jane Austen and wouldn’t for their lives! She’s a 
sort of refuge where they take shelter when they 
want to shy stones at modern novelists,—they cower 
under her wing and say, 'We turn with relief to the 
delicate delineations of Jane Austen’—when they all 
know there isn’t a single character of Jane Austen 
that 'lives,’—or if one did live, he or she would be 
such a confounded prig and bore that the rest of 
society would run away from the very contact. No, 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 217 

my dear child!—please don’t ‘be sensible of the 
honour I have done you’—it’s no particular ‘honour’ 
to a pretty woman to ask her to become the life com¬ 
panion of an elderly and by no means good-looking 
man. I have likened myself unto a wall—a wall of 
safety and protection—and if ever you find such a 
wall necessary or useful—well!—here I stand!” 

She lifted her pretty blue eyes to his trustfully. 

“Thank you!” she said,—then, after a pause she 
added—“I am sorry if—if I have ever misunder¬ 
stood you in any way!” 

“Oh, I’m easily misunderstood!” he said, airily. 
“I rather like it! When people understand you, you 
are on their level,—now I don’t want to be on any¬ 
body’s level. I flatter myself I’ve got a little bit of 
rising ground on my own—just a little bit of course, 
but it’s not absolutely flat.” Here he bethought 
himself of his pipe as a convenient distraction from 
the conversation, and went to the mantelpiece where 
he had left it. “Of course it’s only a little bit,— 
I don’t brag of it—but it’s off the beaten track.” 
He began to fill his pipe slowly, moved by his evil 
genius to do it in a peculiarly irritating manner, 
prodding the tobacco into the bowl with his fore¬ 
finger much too tightly for it to “draw” successfully 
—“and, as regards my being a wall, naturally I’m 
not the only sort of wall you might have—if you 
chose—to lean upon; you might”—here his evil 
genius pressed him harder than ever—“you might 
have an American millionaire wall!—and—after all 
—he’s only a few years older than I am!” 

Her face flushed,—then grew pale. 


218 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, quietly. 
“At least I hope I don’t. If you allude to Mr. 
Durham—” 

He nodded sagaciously. 

“Then,” she continued, “he is not a millionaire. 
And if his son has been killed in this wicked war, I 
shall be glad to do all in my power to try and con¬ 
sole him,—just as if I were his daughter—” She 
broke off, too troubled by her own emotion to say 
more. 

“Daughter is a good relationship,” said the Phi¬ 
losopher calmly, pursuing his demon track. “A 
daughter can inherit if the son is dead. And you say 
he is not a millionaireHe doesn’t look it, I admit 
—but looks are deceptive. The showy man gen¬ 
erally lives on his wits, having nothing else to live 
on,—but the shabby, out-at-elbows fellow is almost 
sure to have a big balance at his banker’s. One 
learns these interesting things as one goes on in life, 
—they add to the charm of philosophy! Not a mil¬ 
lionaire 4 ? Good! But millionaire or pauper he 
makes another very good ‘wall’ for you should you 
need one—and if you prefer him to me—” 

She clasped her hands in a kind of worried des¬ 
peration. 

“Oh, why will you go on talking like this!” she 
exclaimed. “I want nothing—I need no protection 
from anybody! I could make my own living by my¬ 
self if I were driven to it,—and I would rather be 
left utterly alone in the world than to marry a 
man I did not love!” 



LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 219 

The Philosopher struck a fusee and tried to light 
his pipe but failed—it was too tightly packed. 

“Love again!” he commented. “You think of 
nothing else! I’ve told you often that what you 
accept as ‘love’ is mere sentiment. For example, 
take me ,—I have a great affection for you,—so great 
that I have asked you to marry me,—but the very 
variable emotion which boys and girls call ‘love’ 
doesn’t move me a jot. I don’t believe in it. Out 
of a hundred couples who marry for dove’ ninety- 
nine of them regret their folly before the honeymoon 
is over! 

She was silent. He went on pleasantly— 

“All the old novels used to end in the union of 
the hero and the heroine who were supposed to live 
happy ever after.’ We know now that they don't 
live happy ever after. That bubble of illusion is 
broken. The common conclusion according to hard 
fact is that they live chappy ever after! There 
are exceptions of course—but exceptions prove the 
rule. A really fortunate marriage is one where the 
contracting parties are good friends—without any 
sentiment. This sort of sensible people go jogging 
along comfortably and often celebrate their 'Golden 
Wedding,’ whereas the silly ‘love’ business usually 
ends in the divorce court. Do you follow my line 
of argument 4 ?” 

She was watching his futile efforts to light his 
pipe. 

“Quite!” she said, and a tiny smile uplifted the 
corners of her mouth. “It’s quite easy to follow! 


220 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

—much easier than to light a pipe when the bowl is 
crammed too full! Let me do it for you!” 

She took the briar from his unresisting hand and 
deftly loosened the tobacco with the point of her 
embroidery scissors, shaking some of it into the fire¬ 
place, whereat he groaned. 

“What a waste!” he commented. “So like a 
woman! To throw away what she doesn’t want—” 

“What he doesn’t want, you mean!” she said, 
laughing as she handed him back his pipe. “There!” 
and she lit a fusee. “You’ll find that all right now.” 

Slowly and morosely he drew a whiff or two. 

“Yes—it’s all right,” he admitted. “But look at 
what you have cast away in the grate! Enough for 
a half refill!” 

“And whose fault*?” she queried. “Who over¬ 
filled the bowl?” 

He was silent a minute or two. 

“I suppose I did,” he admitted after a while. 
“My own cup—the cup of bitterness,—was over¬ 
filled and unconsciously I matched my pipe with it. 
Ah, you may laugh!—but that’s a fact!” He paused 
again,—then resumed: “And though you’re not a 
war widow you still are resolved to play the part of 
one—that is to say, you’ll remain unmarried—” 

“Till I know the real truth,” she interposed gently. 
“Till I am sure Jack is no longer in this world! You 
see”—she hesitated, then went on—“Jack was— is 
—very fond of me—and I—I was not fond of him 
a bit till you came!” 

The Philosopher drew his pipe from his mouth 
and stared at her, amazed. 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 221 


“Till I came!” he echoed. “What in the name of 
all the gods and goddesses did I do to make you fond 
of him?” 

A pretty rose-colour flushed her cheeks, and she 
smiled; then she went on steadily: 

“I was beginning to be fond of youl” she said. 
“Yes, I was! I don’t mind telling you now. I 
thought you delightfully clever—and you seemed 
kind—and I was quite proud that you liked my com¬ 
panionship. That was at first, you know! But 
afterwards when you were rude—and when you said 
unkind things you need never have said—well!— 
then I began to think about you in a different way. I 
loved your little eccentricities and grumpishness— 
but that sort of thing can be carried too far some¬ 
times !—and bitter words never sweeten friendship. 
You were harsh and cynical—Jack was always ten¬ 
der and gentle—and though Jack is not clever and 
you are!—dreadfully clever!—I felt that love is 
better than all the cleverness in the world!” She 
paused,—there was a dewy sparkle as of tears in 
her eyes. “You see how it happened?” she went on 
again. “I should hardly have loved Jack so much 
if I had not contrasted him with you! Do you un¬ 
derstand?” 

The Philosopher gave a resigned gesture. 

“I understand!” he said. “I over-filled the bowl! 
And of course the pipe doesn’t 'draw.’ Well, well! 
I must accept my fate,—the inevitable result of the 
strange humours of women! Could anything be 
more fantastic than your beginning to care for me 
'at first’ and then starting to care for young Dur- 


222 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

ham ‘at second 5 because I failed to come up to your 
standard of good temper and mild manners! Merci¬ 
ful Providence!” The Philosopher shot out this ex¬ 
clamation like a dart from an air-gun. “Who can 
fathom the mysterious pools of the feminine mind! 
Child, do you want perfection in a man? If you 
do you won’t get it!—make no mistake about 
that!” 

“I don’t want perfection,” she answered mildly, 
her rosy underlip quivering just a little. “I never 
thought of such a thing! But I do want—kind¬ 
ness !” 

She turned her face away quickly lest he should 
see the tears in her eyes which now brimmed over 
and fell. He was silent a moment, then— 

“Kindness? Kindness can be overdone. It then 
becomes mawkish sentimentality. Like politeness, it 
can be a bore. The man who is always bowing and 
saying 'Pardon me!’ is the very chap who’ll give 
you a good deal to pardon him for in the long run. 
It’s the same thing with kindness—if you are always 
kind to people you’ll find them always cruel—it’s 
the necessity of contrast. You can’t say I have ever 
been really unkind to you —now can you?” 

She hesitated. 

“You’ve been rough—and rude!” she murmured, 
at last. 

“Granted! Well, what then?” 

She peeped timidly at him. 

“Then? Why then—I was disillusioned!” she 
said. “That’s all!” 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 223 

He paced two or three times up and down the 
room. 

“Oh! That’s all!” he echoed. “And you think 
perhaps that I’m the only sort of man that proves 
a 'disillusion’ 4 ? You dear little goose! I’m sorry 
for you! You make 'ideals’ which no man can ever 
come up to—and then you are vexed when they fail! 
If you’ve made an ideal of young Durham—” 

“Oh, no, I haven’t ever made an ideal of him!” 
she said, emphatically. “He never professed to be 
clever—he’s just ordinary—nothing particular about 
him—but he wouldn’t hurt any one by saying unkind 
things—” 

The Philosopher stopped abruptly in his pacing 
up and down. 

“Dear child, the folks who allow themselves to 
be 'hurt’ by what they consider an unkind thing, 
are silly and conceited folks at best. I don’t think 
you are silly or conceited—but if you feel ‘hurt’ at 
anything I have said to you or at anything anybody 
has said, then you haven’t as big a spirit as I thought 
you had! I may be rough—I may be rude—but you, 
in your youth and strength should make allowances 
for age in a man,—for disappointments and difficul¬ 
ties and disillusions far worse than your disillusion¬ 
ment—disillusions extending over a long life of 
study and thought—study of human nature, which 
teaches you not to expect the best but always the 
worst—” 

“That’s where you are wrong!” she exclaimed. 
“You should expect the best!—the best always!” 


224? LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

He came up to her and taking her hand, patted 
it soothingly. 

“Charming!—charming!” he said. “You are a 
true sentimentalist; but a very sweet little lady all 
the same! And now what you have to do is to 
put your precept into practice!—expect the best!— 
the best always!—even the best of Me !” 


CHAPTER XV 


/~\N the day of the famous “Armistice,” old Mr. 

Durham did what was for him an unusual thing 
—he went to London. Moreover he rose so early 
and went off so surreptitiously that “Riverside Sam” 
opined “there must be something in the wind.” 
What that “something” was could not be divined, 
but the pretty little “Sentimentalist,” finding him 
gone when she called, as was her morning custom, at 
his cottage, was made somewhat anxious by his sud¬ 
den departure. However there was no means of 
allaying her anxiety, as the one old cook-housekeeper 
who “managed” the cottage for him “didn’t know 
no think” as she averred, except that “he’d got up, 
J ad his coffee and went out,” telling her not to expect 
him home till the following day as he was going to 
town on business. The fair Sylvia heard this ex¬ 
planation, but was scarcely satisfied. It was not like 
him, she thought, to rush off suddenly to London 
without at least calling to see Dr. Maynard and 
telling him of his intended absence for a couple 
of days. And she,—like “Riverside Sam,”—felt 
there must be “something in the wind.” 

On this particular day she happened to be very 

much alone. The Philosopher had taken himself off 

to Oxford almost as suddenly as old Durham had 

taken himself off to London,—her father was em 

grossed in the writing of an article for the dullest 

225 


226 LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

of monthly magazines, and the whole house was 
curiously silent. Far away in the great metropolis 
the sirens and guns had announced the “Armistice,” 
—that cessation of battle which appeared to make 
the German foe consider himself the victor,—but 
here in the heart of a quiet country there was a won¬ 
derful stillness—the lovely stillness of far-stretching 
fields and the slow-winding river,—a stillness too 
which suggested the monotony of life without some 
stirring action or emotion to vibrate through its tran¬ 
quillity. And, for some inexplicable reason the 
usually well-braced and cheerful spirit of the Senti¬ 
mentalist began to droop,—a cloud of melancholy 
darkened her mind, and she pictured herself alone— 
always alone!—alone in the old Manor house, stitch¬ 
ing at her embroidery or working in her garden, with 
nothing further to look forward to but just placid 
comfort and well-being for the rest of her days! 
Surely she could never stand it! Better to marry 
the Philosopher and rub up against all his odd 
humours and eccentricities, than have nothing what¬ 
ever to move her out of the rut of the easy common¬ 
place! Better perhaps to become a “loud” woman 
like some of the modern vulgar,—women who stoop 
to the baseness of betraying their friends’ confidences 
and publishing them in “rag” newspapers for so 
much cash down,—better to be a “film” star (or 
tallow-dip!) than live wholly without any sort of 
“sensation” ! And yet!—she raised her eyes and saw 
a warm shaft of the sun strike on a bunch of brown 
sedges near the river, flecking the whole plant with 
gold, and close by on a leafless twig, a robin perched, 



LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 227 


looking at her with its fearless bright eyes, and ruf¬ 
fling its bonny crimson breast, and as she saw this 
little “phrase” of nature, this wordless speech which 
means so much to the simple heart and pure mind, 
her mood changed and brightened. 

“After all Pd rather live a dull life than a low 
one!” she said to herself. “I’d rather be honest than 
mean! I wouldn’t like to look at myself in the glass 
and know that I was a despicable little scandal¬ 
monger, raking up stories about my friends and sneer¬ 
ing at them and taking money for doing it! That 
sort of thing may be 'sensational’ but it’s disgrace¬ 
ful ! And as for films and 'stars,’ I hope they’ll all 
go out one day and never come back! And I’ll be 
content as I am—I’ve so much to be thankful for!— 
and if Jack ever comes home—” 

She broke off in her musings here, being called by 
her father. She ran off to obey the summons, and 
was soon busy with the various trifles he wanted in 
the way of string, sealing-wax and a long envelope 
in which to enclose his magazine article for the post. 
The old gentleman looked very cheerful, and rubbed 
his hands joyously over “Armistice Day.” 

“They’ve stopped killing each other for the time 
being,” he said. “And that's a mercy! Dear, dear! 
What fools men are, to be sure! As if any Govern¬ 
mental quarrel should be settled by the murdering 
of innocent men! There’s no sense of justice in it.” 

“But is there any justice in anything*?” queried 
Sylvia, with sadness in her tone as she put the ques¬ 
tion. “It doesn’t seem to me that there is!” 

Her father looked at her tenderly. 


228 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“Anything the matter, little girl?” he asked. 
“You don’t seem very bright! What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,—really nothing!” she answered, 
quickly. “Only—I find it hard to believe in justice 
when such dreadful cruelties happen as have been 
happening in the war,—when innocent people are 
killed, and men torture each other in every imag¬ 
inable way—” 

“Yet justice is done,” said Dr. Maynard, gravely. 
“Sooner or later,—believe that, my dear! For all 
the lives wasted there will be a reckoning—not in our 
way, but in God’s way! We must not doubt that 
Right is the ruling power, always bound to come 
uppermost!” 

“It seems very long in coming sometimes,” she 
murmured, then suddenly and in a timid voice she 
said: “Dad dear!—do you know—can you imagine 
—that Mr. Craig has asked me to marry him?” 

Dr. Maynard smiled. 

“Oh, he has, has he? Well, I’m not surprised! 
And you,—what did you say to him?” 

“I said 'No,’ ” she replied. “I asked him not to 
go on with it—but—but—of course—I feel he has 
done me a great honour.” 

The old scholar looked meditative. 

“Um—um—perhaps he has—and perhaps he 
hasn’t! We men are apt to think too much of our¬ 
selves, and you women are prone to think too much 
of us! Craig is a clever fellow—but—well!—he’s a 
leetle old for you, my pretty one!—just a leetle 
worn and battered in the battle of life to be the 



LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 229 

husband of a small fairy like you! So that the 
‘honour’ of his asking you to marry him doesn’t seem 
so great to my mind as the 'honour’ of your accept¬ 
ing him—if you didl —which you won’t!” 

"Which I won’t!” and she slipped a loving arm 
round his neck. "You’re sure of that, Dad? How 
do you know?” 

He put one hand under her chin and turned her 
sweet face up to his own. 

"How do I know?” he echoed, and laughed as he 
spoke. "Why, because you’re not in love with him! 
God bless my soul! Do you think I’m such an old 
noodle as not to know when a girl’s in love?—and 
my own little girlie too! There, there! You can’t 
play bo-peep with me! He has proposed to you— 
well and good!—it’s a bit of a cheek on his part, but 
never mind that!—and you’ve thought it might be 
a good thing for you to be established in life as the 
wife of a distinguished Oxford man,—but—see here, 
my child!” And his bantering tone changed to one 
of earnest and tender gravity. “We are living in 
queer times—this old world has got a shock straight 
to the heart in this war, and men and women are 
drifting away from the faith of their forefathers— 
the faith and right principle which made Britain 
‘Great.’ Don’t go with the fatal ‘swim,’ Sylvia!— 
it’s bound to end in a whirlpool of trouble. Keep 
to the straight lines of life,—and one of those 
straight lines is love. Love, my little one!—nothing 
but real, pure love can make a woman happy in mar¬ 
riage.” 




230 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

Sylvia nestled close to him. 

“Dear Dad! You are quite eloquent!” she said, 
and smiled up into his eyes. “And you don’t think 
I’m in love with your distinguished friend?” 

He laughed. 

“Not a bit!” he replied. “Nor is he really in love 
with you! He thinks you a pretty little armful of 
charms—which you are —but he wouldn’t know how 
to treat you as a wife, nor would he know how to 
treat any wife! He’s past all that. His habits are 
settled, and he wouldn’t change them to please any 
woman!” 

“No, I suppose he wouldn’t!” she murmured 
meditatively. “And those habits are rather trying— 
sometimes!” 

Her father laughed again. 

“Of course they are! The habits of bookworms 
are always trying! Ym a bookworm. My habits 
are trying!” 

“No, they’re not!” And she linked her arms 
round his neck and hugged him. “No, Dad, you’re 
just the dearest and best man in the world to me! 
You know that, don’t you?” 

“Well, you make me believe so!” he answered, 
submitting to her caresses with a very good grace. 
“But when the gout is on me—” 

“Ah, that’s not you!” she declared, lovingly. 
“That’s the gout only! You’re not in it!” 

“I wish I were not!” he responded. “But I tell 
you what, Sylvia,—it’s less violent than it was. 
Craig has certainly helped me to ignore it—if he 
hadn’t kept me at work—” 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 231 


“Ah, yes! ‘The Deterioration of Language!’” 
smiled Sylvia. “You must both be sorry that it is 
nearly finished—that great book!” 

“It is a great book!” he agreed, triumphantly. 
“And it’s a book that’s wanted. Language is getting 
more and more deteriorated every day. When you 
see the press circulating the vilest slang—such as 
‘the blinkin’ this, that, or t’other’—the ‘bally’ rag of 
some special thing, and women, passing for ‘ladies,’ 
talk of ‘tommy rot’ in ordinary conversation, surely 
it’s time some protest was made! A slangy nation 
is always a decadent one—purity of speech is the 
result of purity of thought, while coarse language 
expresses coarseness of mind and morals.” 

The old scholar was wandering off on his favourite 
theme and turned to get a book to confirm what he 
was saying. His daughter stood watching him for a 
moment,—then suddenly, in a hushed tone she said: 

“Dad, do you think Jack Durham is really 
killed ?” 

He looked at her thoughtfully and kindly. 

“Do I think so 4 ? My dear, I don’t know what to 
think—but so far as my own impressions go, I rather 
feel that he’s alive. Of course all the facts are 
against me,—all the same I cannot realise anything 
else. It seems to me impossible that he should be 
dead. I know there are thousands of young fellows 
like him who are gone—more’s the pity!—but”— 
here he paused and stretching out a hand drew his 
daughter tenderly towards him—“I suppose you 
were really fond of him 4 ?” 

She hesitated, then spoke in rather a hushed tone. 


232 LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“Yes, Dad—I think I was,—I think I am! And 
yet—do you know I never thought of being fond of 
him till your friend, the Philosopher”—and she 
smiled—“came on 'the scene. I really was quite 
taken with him! —he rather made a sort of love to 
me for a time, and I was quite proud that such a 
clever man should even seem to like me. But after 
a while, such ugly sides of his character began to 
show—he could be so rough and rude—and—and— 
selfish! that I began to dislike him, as much as I had 
once liked him. And Jack—” 

“Well 4 ?” interpolated her father, gently. “And 
Jack 4 ?” 

“Jack was always kind,” she said, “and quite 
z//2selfish. He told me before he went away that he 
was fond of me—but he would not bind me to any 
promise or engagement—he left me quite free. Only 
one thing seemed to trouble him a little—he hoped 
I would not marry the Philosopher!” 

“And yet you had some vague idea of doing it!” 
laughed her father. 

“Only vague!” she responded. “Very vague!” 

“Suppose the worst—that Jack is really gone— 
would you marry Craig 4 ?” 

She thought a moment, then answered— 

“No, I don’t think I could!” 

“Right! You’d be a fool if you did! Dear child, 
you know what I’ve told you before this—there’s 
only one right way of marriage and that is great love 
on both sides. It’s no good playing with a sacra¬ 
ment. The thousands of miserable marriages and 
divorces are ample proofs of the mistakes men and 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 233 


women make in taking each other for better or worse 
on the strength of a mere 'fancy/ or by way of 
monetary convenience. Now I”—he paused—“I 
loved your mother!—loved her above everything in 
the world!—and I know she loved mel She gave 
me you !—and though I may be a testy old fellow 
at times I love you next best to Her. And I want 
you to be happy, my little girl!—and for your sake 
I hope Jack Durham is not killed. He’s not particu¬ 
larly clever—but I believe his heart is in the right 
place, and that he would make you a kind husband. 
Kindness is better than all the intellectual brilliancy 
in the world!” 

He kissed her with lingering fondness, and then 
with an air of shaking off his mood of seriousness, 
resumed his groping among his books. 

“And so Durham has gone to town?” he suddenly 
queried, looking round. 

“Yes. So his housekeeper at the cottage told me 
this morning.” 

“Some sudden business, I suppose! Craig won’t 
be back till to-morrow, so you’ll have to pass a quiet 
evening with me all alone! Poor little Sylvia! I’m 
afraid it’s very dull for you here sometimes.” 

“It’s not” she declared with emphasis. “When I 
find my own dear Dad’s company 'dull’—I deserve 
to be branded as an ungrateful little brute! How 
can you think such a thing!” 

His old eyes rested upon her sorrowfully. 

“Ah, my dear! Times have changed!” he said. 
“In the old days 'home’ was a happy abiding place 
for the young folk who honoured their old folk— 


234 LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

but now, thanks to the stupid governments under 
which the people pay taxes and groan their lives 
away, ‘homes’ are broken up and old folk made mock 
of while the young are encouraged to run a wild life 
as they will, without faith in God or trust in any 
good save for themselves. You are not of these— 
I have brought you up differently—but it’s an ‘old- 
fashioned’ bringing-up, Sylvia!—and you are not a 
‘modern’ minded girl. Perhaps you’ll thank me for 
that some day—perhaps not!—but I maintain that 
an ‘old fashion’ which built up the homes of the na¬ 
tion and taught the people to believe in God and live 
clean, loyal, loving lives, was a ‘fashion’ worth fol¬ 
lowing. No ‘new’ fashion will ever equal or sur¬ 
pass it!” 


CHAPTER XVI 


^TEXT morning came a brief note from the Phi- 

^ losopher,—he prided himself on never writing 
a word more than was absolutely necessary. 

“Coming back to-morrow afternoon. Bringing a 
friend to tea.” 

This, scrawled on what is called a “correspondence 
card” and signed with the almost illegible hieroglyph 
which he made of his initials, was all. 

Dr. Maynard turned it over and over—then 
glanced at his daughter. 

“This means that he will be here to-day,” he said. 
“Probably about four or five o’clock. I think the 
friend he alludes to is an Oxford publisher.” 

“Yes*?” queried Sylvia tentatively. 

“Yes,—quite an enterprising man who is likely to 
take my ‘The Deterioration of Language,’ and 
launch it well. Of course we shall have to talk it 
over.” 

“Of course!” and the Sentimentalist did her best 
to seem interested. “You will have to settle terms, 
and all that sort of thing.” 

“Terms?” The old scholar shook his head. “My 
dear child, I don’t build any hopes in that direction! 
If I can find a publisher to take the book at all I 
shall be fortunate—” 

“But it’s such a wonderful work!” she said, with 

235 


236 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

all the tender indulgence she truly felt. “You’ve 
had so much patience and spent so much time over 
it!” 

“Very true!” and Maynard smiled. “But pub¬ 
lishers don’t care about that. They think of trade. 
‘Will it sell?’ is their one demand. If it won’t, 
what’s the good of it? Think of Milton gratefully 
accepting Five Pounds for ‘Paradise Lost’! There’s 
a life’s lesson!” He looked at the Philosopher’s note 
again and a little smile hovered round his lips. 
“Yes! I should say Craig has found a likely man 
and is bringing him along.” 

“Well, I’ll have a nice tea ready for them when 
they come,” said Sylvia. “That will help to put 
them in a good humour.” 

She went off then on her various household duties, 
and presently bethought herself that though it was 
chill November there was one warm corner in the 
garden where a few monthly roses still found cour¬ 
age to bloom. One or two of these would brighten 
the tea-table, she decided, and putting on her hat and 
cloak she ran out in search of them. They were all 
in a little pink group together—drooping rather on 
their stems, yet not without soft fragrance, and she 
was almost reluctant to gather them. She remem¬ 
bered how Jack Durham had called her a “rose- 
lady,” and quick tears sprang to her eyes as the 
pretty name chimed in her memory like a fairy bell. 
Slowly and very tenderly she plucked three or four 
of what were indeed the “last roses of summer”— 
and as she did so was startled by a gruff voice speak¬ 
ing on the other side of the hedge. 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 237 

“Missy! Missy Maynard!” 

She looked up and saw the unkempt head and 
rough brown face of “Riverside Sam” peering at her 
through a tangle of leaves. 

“Don’t be skeered, Miss! It’s only me!” he said 
in a kind of hoarse whisper. “I say! Look ’ere! I 
thought ye might like to know Mr. Durham’s back. 
He got ’ome early this mornin’. Yes—he’s ’ome— 
all well an’ ’arty!” 

“I’m very glad!” said Sylvia, gently. “Thanks, 
Sam! It’s kind of you to come and tell me. I 
shouldn’t have known unless you had, as I can’t go 
down to the cottage to-day—we have visitors this 
afternoon.” 

“Have ye*?” And Sam grinned through the aper¬ 
ture he had made in the hedge somewhat in the fash¬ 
ion of a yokel at a country fair grinning through a 
horse-collar. “Visitors cornin’, eh*? From Oxford 
mebbe*?” 

Sylvia nodded carelessly, a little surprised at his 
exceptionally friendly familiarity. 

“The old gentleman ain’t arf bad!” went on Sam. 
“For all ’is lamin’ an’ queer talk ’e’s got a bit of ’art 
in the right place! I’ve taken to likin’ ’im now—I 
usen’t to. He’s not much sport about ’im—skeered 
of ’is life at a water-rat, an’ all that sort o’ thing. 
I s’pose ’e’ll be cornin’ back from Oxford to-day*?” 

“Yes—I think so!” Sylvia answered, still per¬ 
plexed by something in his manner which she could 
not understand. “Do you want to see him*?” 

“Not pertikerly,” and Sam grinned again. “ ’E 
don’t owe me nothing. ’E ain’t very fond of the 




238 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

river,—fishin 5 ain’t in ’is line. An’ Lor’ bless ye, the 
river ain’t much to look at now—all brown an’ 
muddy with a few whistlin’ reeds on the banks— 
very different to the days when you an’ pore Mr. 
Jack used to walk along by the path as prutty to see 
as two birds on the ’op! Ah! pore Mr. Jack!—he 
was a good lad! as good as ye’ll find anywhere! An’ 
to think the Germans ’ave got ’im!” 

Sylvia moved restlessly. 

“I must be going, Sam,” she said. “Is there any¬ 
thing you want? Anything I can do for you?” 

“No, Miss Maynard, no! Thank you all the 
same! No one wishes ye better luck than I do! 
That’s why I came up ’ere this mornin’—just to tell 
ye that old Mr. Durham is back safe so as ye 
mightn’t worry!” 

And with that he drew his head back from the 
aperture in the hedge and went off, while the Senti¬ 
mentalist stood inert for a moment, with the roses 
she had gathered in her hand, wondering whether 
she would have time before luncheon to run down to 
Mr. Durham’s cottage and see how he was, and what 
news he brought from London. News? What news 
could he bring? Except just a description of how 
the 'armistice’ was hailed by the great city’s multi¬ 
tudes. That would be interesting—but it could 
wait. She decided it would be best to remain at 
home, and let Mr. Durham take his own time for a 
visit to her father during the day. 

“And if he comes when Mr. Craig and the pub¬ 
lisher are here talking business with Dad, I’ll mam 
age to take him off and entertain him in another 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 239 

room,” she said to herself. “For of course if the 
great Book’ is to be discussed, nothing must be al¬ 
lowed to interfere!” 

She smiled, and hummed a little tune under her 
breath as she went back from the garden into the 
house and set her roses in a crystal vase, which so 
enhanced their beauty that they seemed to cheer up 
and look almost as fair as they were accustomed to 
do in summer. And the hours swept on glidingly till 
a flare of deep scarlet and gold in the west spread 
itself out in all the glory of a November sunset. The 
glow of a big log fire shed bright reflections all over 
the charming drawing-room of the Manor house, 
sparkling on the daintily set out tea-table with its 
polished silver and delicate china, and the Sentimen¬ 
talist surveyed her preparations with pardonable 
pride. 

“I do love pretty things!” she said, inwardly. 
“And luxurious things too! The Philosopher would 
say there is no necessity for either beauty or comfort, 
—but I know no one who loves the good ‘tastes’ of 
life more than he does! He always chooses the 
easiest chair to sit in,—ah, that reminds me!” And 
she forthwith began to place the chairs in the most 
comfortable and friendly positions near the tea- 
table. “Now they can talk without straining them¬ 
selves!” and she smiled. “Dad and Mr. Craig and 
the publisher! I’ll be out of it—for of course as 
soon as I’ve poured out tea I’ll leave them together. 
Women are never wanted in ‘business’ by the men 
—and yet I think they often manage better than the 
men when they get a chance!” 


240 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

Just then a bell rang, sending a deep musical echo 
through the house. 

“There they are!” she said. “I’ll run upstairs 
just to see if my hair looks tidy!” 

This was always her little excuse for taking a peep 
at herself in the mirror before presenting an appear¬ 
ance to visitors. As a matter of fact her hair was 
seldom actually “tidy,” being of too wilful, curly 
and “fluffy” a disposition. It rambled all over her 
head in fair bright tendrils of warm brown-gold, and 
curled knowingly and becomingly on the nape of 
her neck like feathery flecks of sunshine. The pol¬ 
ished smoothness of the modern “transformation” 
peruke was nowhere in evidence. Still, it was just 
as well to have a glance in the looking-glass as not, 
—and she was not altogether dissatisfied with the 
reflection of herself as she saw it. She put a light 
hairpin or two in a rebellious tress that strayed too 
freely over her forehead, and then hastened down¬ 
stairs, wondering why the parlourmaid had not an¬ 
nounced the arrival of visitors. Entering the draw¬ 
ing-room now lit only by the sparkle of the fire and 
the red glow of the sunset, she saw a man standing 
with his back towards her,—one man,—not the Phi¬ 
losopher—not her “Dad”—just one man. Was it 
the publisher 4 ? She stopped short, with a curious 
hesitation,—her heart beat quickly—then she heard 
a muffled voice speaking— 

“Don’t be frightened!—now don’t! It’s only 
me!” 

“Jack!!” she cried, and rushed forward, almost 




LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 241 

falling as the “one man” turned round and caught 
her in his arms. 

“Jack!!” she exclaimed, sobbingly again. “Oh, 
Jack! Is it really, really you*?” 

There was no audible answer. But the silence 
was more eloquent than speech,—the silence of that 
intense joy which only too seldom lifts poor human¬ 
ity above its daily care and weariness and moves it 
to thank God for the dear possession of love. 




CHAPTER XVII 


c< \7 ES, it’s really me!” said Jack at last, lifting 

-*■ his head from among the soft fair curls that 
nestled against his breast. “Yes, you precious little 
'rose-lady’! Really me! And it’s all the Philoso¬ 
pher.” 

Sylvia started out of his caressing arms with a 
shock of surprise. 

“The Philosopher?” she echoed. 

“Just him!” And Jack, grown thinner, but not 
less good-looking, shed a whole sun-ray of tenderness 
upon her from his clear, brave, blue eyes. “You 
wouldn’t have thought it—but he’s a regular brick! 
A brick? He’s an entire edifice!” 

The Sentimentalist clasped her little white hands 
together and gazed at him in rapture—she could 
hardly believe he was there before her actually living 
and well! 

“Oh, Jack, do tell me!” she exclaimed. “What 
do you mean? What has the Philosopher done?” 

Jack put his arm round her waist and drew her to 
the sofa where he sat down by her side. 

“He has done everything, dear!” he said. “He’s 
the trump card of the whole game! He discovered 
me!” 

“Discovered you?” Sylvia gazed at him in be¬ 
wilderment. 

“Yes—he found out the prison the Boches had put 

242 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 243 

me into. It wasn’t an easy matter either! But these 
learned professors always hang together, and he has 
a friend high up in the diplomatic service of Ger¬ 
many, who is, like himself, a sort of book-worm— 
and he started the search for me and found me. And 
then—” Here Jack broke off, evidently overcome 
by emotion. His “rose-lady” caught at his hand and 
kissed it. 

“Yes, Jack!—and then 1 ?” 

“Well—he found me pretty well done for! But 
just because the Philosopher, as we call him, had 
been a boyhood’s friend of his, he got me out of the 
awful hole I was in, and as I was ill and half 
starved—” 

“Oh, Jack!” and the Sentimentalist gave a little 
cry of pain. 

“Yes!—but it’s all over now,” and Jack kissed 
her tenderly. “As I say, this first-class old German 
got me out and took me to his own house, where I 
was nursed as if I had been his son. And that’s not 
all. He managed to send me to England—and 
that’s where the Philosopher comes in!” 

Sylvia listened almost breathlessly. 

“The Philosopher met me at the boat and took me 
himself to a private hospital in London—a real A-l. 
You couldn’t imagine his doing all he did do!” 

“Oh!” cried Sylvia. “Then he knew you were 
alive all the time!” 

“He knew I was alive but he didn’t know how 
soon I should be dead!” Jack replied. “I was very, 
very ill, dear! I had been wounded as well as 
starved—and there was plenty of reason for think- 


244 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

ing I should never pull round. So the good old chap 
kept his own counsel. He did not tell my father or 
any one that I was alive and in England. Nobody 
knew. If the War Office knew, it didn’t tell! And 
the Philosopher made up his mind to keep his own 
counsel.” 

“Oh, he might have let us know!” cried Sylvia 
almost indignantly. “He might have relieved all 
our sorrow and suspense!” 

Jack caught and clasped her hands in his own. 

“Now, now, Sylvia!” he said. “Don’t you mis¬ 
take the old boy! I used to hate him!—but I know 
he’s one of the finest fellows living! Yes, truly! 
He used to come and see me, and talk to me—when 
I was able to listen—and he told me all about my 
father and about you—and he would say—Tf I ex¬ 
plain things they’ll want to come and nurse you— 
and you’ll be nursed to death! If I hold my tongue 
they’ll be none the worse—and you’ll be spared all 
the emotional excitement and worry, and you’ll get 
well. And while you’re getting well I’ll be a sort 
of Cupid’s messenger.’ ” 

Here Jack laughed, but there were tears in his 
eyes. 

“Yes—a Cupid’s messenger,” he went on. “That 
meant that he would bring me all the news of you 
whenever he could! He was a queer old 'Cupid’s 
Messenger!’ but there couldn’t be a kinder sort of 
'Cupid’ anywhere! I was pretty slow in recovering 
—but it’s been 'slow and sure’ with me—and with 
all the care and good things the learned Craig has 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 245 

been showering on me, why! Pm as fit as ever I was! 
And I certainly owe it to your old ‘Philosopher’— 
the man I begged you not to marry while I was away 
—do you remember 4 ?” 

Sylvia looked up. Her lovely blue eyes were wet 
and sparkling but there was a glint of mischief in her 
smile. 

“Shall I marry him now you are home again?” she 
asked. 

For answer he caught her in his arms and held her 
close and fondly. 

“You’ll marry me and no one but me!” he said, 
tenderly. “That’s settled!” 

There was a brief silence. The firelight flickered 
and leaped into flame, sending a warm glow through 
the room—the hues of the sunset seen through the 
window had paled into delicate amber like the petals 
of a daffodil. The restful pause was broken by quite 
an ugly sound,—a cough distinctly harsh and irritat¬ 
ing. A gruff voice followed the cough. 

“Dear me!” said the voice, querulously. “Hu¬ 
manity can never be original!—it always imitates! 
The old, old story!” 

And the Philosopher, rather “hunchy” of shoul¬ 
der and somewhat shambling about the feet looked 
into the room with a quizzical air of enquiry. 

The Sentimentalist rushed at him with the light 
swoop of a bird flying from heaven to earth. 

“Oh, how could you!” she exclaimed, half laugh¬ 
ing and half crying together. “How could you—” 

“Well, well! Now what’s the matter?” And the 


246 LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

Philosopher fenced off with one arm her eager little 
hands ready to embrace his coat sleeve. “Be calm! 
Be normal! How could I—what Y’ 

“How could you be so wicked /” she went on. 
“Yes!—so wicked!—and so—so— good!” 

“I couldn’t / 5 and the Philosopher smiled quite a 
superior smile. “I couldn’t be wicked and good at 
the same moment! Sentiment again, you see! Dear 
child, you will overdo the thing! You must really 
try to be less emotional! And how do you find your 
young man looking 4 ?” 

For answer to this he found his hand caught and 
kissed, despite his efforts to avoid the impulsive 
caress. 

“There, there!” he said, gently. “That will do, 
you foolish little girl! Durham, you’ll have your 
work cut out for you when you take her in hand! 
Now what about tea 4 ?” 

“It’s ready!” and Sylvia pulled him along towards 
the daintily spread table. “All but the making— 
and I’ll see to that directly—” 

“Well, begin at once,” said the Philosopher. 
“You needn’t wait for Dad. Both Dads are on their 
way across the garden—but they wanted you to meet 
the Oxford publisher first!” 

He gave a short gruff laugh, and feigned to be 
more bored than pleased when Jack Durham grasped 
his hand, saying in a low tone: “I can never thank 
you enough, sir!” 

And, at that moment “the two Dads” came in, 
making a complete “joy” party of happy hearts and 
radiant faces, while Sylvia, her fair cheeks flushing 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 247 

like roses with her inward delight, made the tea and 
dispensed it, Jack performing the duty of handing it 
round to the three elderly gentlemen who, like 
pleased spectators at a charming comedy, watched 
the proceedings with the absorbed interest of con¬ 
spirators rejoicing in the successful result of a 
ripened plot. 

“I should never have thought it possible,” said 
old Mr. Durham, breaking through the light desul¬ 
tory chatter presently with measured, drawling ac¬ 
cents, “that you could have lent yourself”—here he 
fixed his eyes on the Philosopher who had just taken 
his cup of tea from the fair Sentimentalist’s hand. 

“Lent myself*?” and Craig smiled. “Why don’t 
you say gave myself*? I gave myself to my own 
scheme—if that’s what you mean—and it seems to 
have turned out pretty well!” 

“Yes, that’s right, Dad!” interposed Jack. “He 
gave himself—literally gave himself body and soul 
to the business of getting me well and about again! 
—and here I am!” 

His father looked at him with eyes in which age 
had not burnt out tenderness. 

“Here you are—thank God!” he said. “But 
what I find hard to understand—” 

“I know!” interposed Dr. Maynard. “But we 
won’t say anything about it—” 

“Oh, yes, we will!” and the Philosopher munched 
a piece of toast and washed it down with tea. “We 
will ask ourselves how it is that we who profess to 
know a great deal, know next to nothing about char¬ 
acter! Character !—your character —my character! 


248 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

—everybody’s character! The duality of ourselves, 
as it were! What you don’t understand, my good 
Mr. Durham, is why I should have taken trouble 
over your son—who is nothing to me”—here he 
waved his tea-cup melodramatically—“literally 
nothing! Merely a worthy young man—an Ameri¬ 
can—and I have very little use for Americans,— 
who was taken prisoner by the Germans. Now I 
have more friends among Germans than I have 
among Americans. Never mind that! It occurred 
to me that a German friend might be useful to the 
American young man under the circumstances; and 
—and—well!—there’s the whole story!” 

“Not the whole story by any means!” broke out 
Jack, impetuously. “Not the care, the kindness, the 
attention, the patient watchfulness—” 

The Philosopher held up his hand. 

“Now, Jack!—you see I call you 'Jack’ quite 
familiarly—I never thought I should! That’s quite 
enough! Don’t harp on the subject! Remember I 
hate sentiment!” 

Here he gulped down his tea with an ugly gurgle 
and passed his cup to Sylvia for more. 

“I hate sentiment!” he repeated, then paused as 
old Dr. Maynard pointed a finger at him and said: 

“Yes, you do!—when your own sentiment is not 
in question! Then it’s quite another matter! You’ll 
go any length for it! Yes, Craig!—you know you 
will! God bless me! Don’t I know it! I’ll give 
you away—sentiment and all!—yes, I will! I’ve 
been in your scheme all along—I’ve known your 



LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 249 


plot! Sentiment? I should think so! Why you’d 
do anything for Sylvia!” 

There was a moment’s silence—an awkward 
pause. But the Philosopher was not embarrassed. 
On the contrary he lifted his head and looked round 
with quite a defiant air. 

“Quite so!” he said. “You put it rather bluntly, 
Maynard!—but you’re right! I certainly would do 
anything for Sylvia! And—crusty and selfish old 
bear as I am—I’ve done my best!” 



CHAPTER XVIII 


TT is a curious, but undisputed fact that when our 
most ardent wishes are suddenly gratified, an un¬ 
accountable sense of dissatisfaction is apt to set in. 
Who can explain it? Anxiety is over—the tension 
of nerves is relaxed; and yet—and yet! We are all 
ungrateful creatures, often sad when there is no 
cause for sadness, and disappointed with good for¬ 
tune when it smiles upon us,—we would always have 
a “something else” though we are unable to explain 
what that “something else” should be. It is a ques¬ 
tion of “temperament” we must suppose,—and 
probably it was a “temperamental” condition that 
moved pretty Sylvia Maynard to go, after the pleas¬ 
ant little tea-party was over and the men had re¬ 
tired to smoke in the old Doctor’s library, up to her 
own little bedroom and there give way to a passion 
of weeping. The tears and sobs came in a storm— 
a doctor would have said “hysteria” and advised the 
administration of cold water—but the emotional 
tempest in her mind was rather beyond physical rem¬ 
edy. She was brought face to face with the unex¬ 
pected,—the Philosopher whom she had thought ab¬ 
sorbed in self and the things of self had proved to 
be of different mettle altogether; and she now began 
to deplore the erroneous estimate she had made of 
his character. She had judged him by his crusty 
whims and cranks of temper, and had been unable 
to realise that these were not the real qualities of the 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 251 


man. But who could have imagined,—she de¬ 
manded this quite desperately of herself—who could 
have imagined it possible for him to play the part 
he had taken in the rescue of Jack Durham, when 
all the time he was asserting that young man’s prob¬ 
able death, and rather sneering—yes, sneering! at 
her as a sort of prospective war widow! And not 
only that—he had practically proposed to her him¬ 
self! It was a bewildering puzzle to her brain— 
though clear out of the tangle stood the fact that the 
Philosopher had assuredly justified himself as a 
friend and an unselfish one. And every now and 
again the poor little Sentimentalist was troubled by 
the thought—a wicked thought, she called it!—as to 
whether, after all, she had done wisely in refusing 
to marry him! Was Jack the better choice? At the 
very suggestion a hot blush burned her cheeks. 

“Gh, what an ungrateful little wretch I am!” she 
said to herself, dashing away her tears. “I love 
Jack!—of course I love him!—and he loves me! 
After all, that is the great thing—his love for me!” 

And what of the Philosopher’s love for her? 
Dared she consider it? It shone forth now in a 
new and beautiful light,—for it was surely love for 
Her that had moved him to do so much for Jack! 
Yes,—there could be no doubt he had done it all 
for her sake—in the wish to make her happy. Was 
that not love?—the very best kind of love? And she 
had let that go! Was she glad or sorry? “You 
cannot eat your cake and have it,” says an old 
proverb, but for the moment it seemed as though she 
wished to do both! 




252 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

It took her some little time to compose herself, 
and she was only brought to a realisation of things 
as they now were by her father’s voice calling her. 

“Sylvia! Sylvia!” 

“Yes, Dad!” 

“They’ll all stay to dine—Jack and his father, 
with Craig. It’s quite right, I suppose*?” 

“Yes!—of course!” and she ran to the top of the 
stairs to answer. “Dinner will be ready at eight 
o’clock.” 

Her father retired again within his sanctum, and 
she hastily proceeded to bathe her tear-stained face 
and swollen eyes. Looking at herself in the glass 
she was angry that she had so spoilt her appearance 
by what she justly termed “an ugly cry.” 

“And whatever did I cry for?” she asked herself. 
“I ought to be perfectly happy! I’ve been fretting 
about Jack for months, and now here he is, home 
again safe and well—and—and I’m going to be mar¬ 
ried to him. Married to him!—just think of it!— 
I wonder when!” 

The prospect was, for a moment, almost alarm¬ 
ing. Quickly she strove to put away the thought, 
and busied herself in brushing and arranging her 
lovely hair, though with a curious lack of interest. 
She was conscious that she ought to look her best on 
this special evening, and from a sense of positive 
duty in this respect she chose one of her prettiest 
evening gowns,—a mysterious “creation” of delicate 
ivory and pale blue,—yet do what she would her 
eyes remained heavy and her face pale. 

“Poor Jack!” she soliloquised softly. “He has 



LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 253 

been through such a lot of suffering! I must try and 
make him very happy—if I can!” Her meditation 
broke off with a snap here,—and she sighed—“Poor 
Philosopher! I wish I could make him happy too!” 

She glanced again at her own reflection in the 
mirror with a deep sense of disparagement and 
shame. It was simply dreadful, she declared to 
herself, to be fond of both men! She was troubled 
by the most contradictory cross-currents of feeling, 
—Jack, she knew, was devoted to her, and he was 
charming,—young, good-looking and in every way 
one of the best of brave fellows; on the other hand, 
the Philosopher, Walter Craig, shining light of a 
select and learned circle, and distinguished for 
many brilliant intellectual attainments, was elderly, 
cranky and uncertain of temper as well as uncouth 
and rude of behaviour,—yet he also was devoted to 
her and had proved his devotion by a perfect un¬ 
selfishness. She worried her little inconsistent senti¬ 
mental self over what seemed to her a tangle of per¬ 
plexing possibilities and uncertainties, out of which 
came the clear and sharp reproach to her own con¬ 
science of having mistaken the character of a man 
who was much above the average of men, as men go 
—while Jack—was he above the average? Oh, she 
could not, she would not think any more about it! 

“I shall marry Jack,” she said, resolutely. “I 
must marry him, because he wants to marry me. He 
has made up his mind for it. Mr. Craig is too old 
to marry,—he would be miserable with a wife! He 
wouldn’t get on with her at all—certainly not with 
one like me! I’m such a little fool!” 



254 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“Yes, Sylvia!—perhaps you are!” agreed her sub¬ 
conscious self. But, after all, she was no more of a 
little fool than thousands of other girls as good and 
sweet and well-meaning as she, who take their im¬ 
pulses for deep emotions and their sentiment for real 
life! 

She made herself very charming that evening at 
dinner,—bewilderingly so to Jack, who in his lover¬ 
like pride and ecstasy could hardly take his eyes 
away from her. The Philosopher, on the contrary, 
appeared to be very hungry,—he studied his plate 
with critical attention, and manifested a well-nigh 
greedy satisfaction with his food. When Dr. May¬ 
nard ordered a bottle of extra choice champagne to 
be opened in honour of Jack’s return, the Philoso¬ 
pher smiled knowingly. 

“You keep this for special occasions, eh, May¬ 
nard?” he said. “Hope you’ve got some for the 
wedding day!” 

Sylvia uttered a little exclamation. 

“Oh, don’t talk about that!” she said, pleadingly. 
“No—please don’t! Not yet!” 

“Not yet indeed!” said old Mr. Durham, drawing 
his fuzzy brows together in an attempted frown. “I 
should think not! Why, where’s the money coming 
from?” 

“Money?” echoed Sylvia, wonderingly. 

“Ah! Money! Money to marry on—money to 
keep house with! Don’t you ever think of that, little 
woman?” 

A warm flush crimsoned her cheeks,—she glanced 
appealingly at Jack. 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 255 

“Oh, it’s no use your looking sweet at that harum- 
scarum fellow!” went on Durham, with evident en¬ 
joyment in his own remarks. “He’s out of the 
fighting now—can’t play the hero any more— 
and hasn’t a penny to bless himself with! He’s 
got to depend on his poor old father! Eh, 
Jack? His poor old father! What a rascal he 
is, eh?” 

Jack smiled, and looked across the table at his 
“poor old father” cheerily enough. 

“I shall soon get to work,” he said. “The Bodies 
haven’t crippled me, though they tried hard at it. 
There’s plenty for me to do, and I’ll do it.” 

The Philosopher put on his glasses and surveyed 
him critically. 

“I presume you are familiar with the special line 
of 'plenty’ on which to spend your energies?” he 
said. “Is it oil or nuggets?” 

Jack laughed gaily. 

“Both, perhaps!” he answered. “Dad knows 
best! He had me trained as an engineer of all 
sorts—I’m not very good at it, but I know a thing 
or two. Anyhow I shall soon earn enough to marry 
on.” 

“Oh, you will, will you?” and his father lifted 
his glass of champagne and waved it towards him. 
“Well, here’s to your luck, my boy!—and God be 
thanked I’ve got you back again!” 

The earnestness of his words, voice and manner 
created an emotional pause in the conversation, and 
Sylvia drank her wine quickly to stop the tears that 
threatened to fall. 


256 LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“And about that Oxford publisher,” said Dr. 
Maynard, suddenly. 

They all laughed, except the Philosopher, who 
turned a reproving eye upon his friend. 

“That Oxford publisher is a fact,” he said. “You 
apparently doubt his existence, Maynard! Nor am 
I likely, I, of all men—to advance a mere figment as 
a publisher? He is no airy vision!—he is a hard, 
inexorable fact! He will be here to-morrow.” 

“Positively, Craig, you are a wonderful fellow!” 
said Dr. Maynard, with a smile. “You seem to 
manage everything your own way!” 

The Philosopher gave a little shrug of his shoul¬ 
ders. 

“Not quite!” he said. “But probably if I had 
everything my own way it would be very bad for me. 
As concerns the Oxford publisher I have nothing to 
do with him except persuading him to come here and 
‘consider 5 the publication of your great work. For 
a publisher to ‘consider 5 anything is a great conces¬ 
sion. A publisher is a majestic being. He holds, as 
it were, the fate of the future in his hands. For 
if the Publisher will not publish the author what 
becomes of the Author’s work? Horrible to contem¬ 
plate ! It may perish! The dear little child of six 
years who has just committed the crime of writing 
verses which its parents pay a press-man to ‘boom/ 
may be denied a full hearing! Think of it! 
Though truly as long as the author pays for being 
published, it will be all right. But you, my dear 
Maynard, will not pay — 55 

“Cannot!” interposed the old Doctor. 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 257 

“True! Cannot. Then,—whether it will be all 
right or all wrong, nobody can predict.” 

“It will be all right,” interposed Jack, suddenly 
and with fervour, “if you've taken it in hand!” 

The Philosopher almost blushed. Certainly a pale 
red suffused the higher portion of his cheek-bones. 
Then he waved his hand deprecatingly. 

“You over-rate my poor powers!” he said. “But 
—'sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.’ The 
Publisher may not be made of adamant—many 
publishers are!—possibly when he sees Miss May¬ 
nard—” 

“Oh!” exclaimed Sylvia, “7 could never persuade 
a publisher, I’m sure!” 

“How can you be sure?” queried the Philosopher, 
blandly. “Your persuasion—quite unconscious, no 
doubt! has persuaded a far more difficult type of 
being!” 

“Yes?” and she made the query wonderingly. 

“Yes!—and very much yes!” and he smiled,— 
then, as she rose from the dinner table and prepared 
to leave the men to their smoke—“You are going? 
We shall be swift to follow—at all events one of us 
will!” 

His smile broke into a kindly laugh as Jack 
sprang up and held open the dining-room door for 
his “rose-lady” to pass out. His adoring eyes fixed 
upon her as she went made her nervous, and she was 
glad to get away by herself into the seclusion of her 
own little morning-room where, as she now remem¬ 
bered with a whimsical touch of regret, the Philoso¬ 
pher had found her, as he declared, on her “high 


258 LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

horse.” It was a long time since she had mounted 
that “tail quadruped,”—the spirit of doing so had 
rather deserted her. 

“I don’t think I shall ever ride the high horse 
again!” she said, with a little sigh. “I couldn’t do 
it with Jack—he’s too kind. He never rubs one up 
the wrong way. Yet, of course,—sometimes—” 

Yes! Sometimes it does one good to be rubbed 
up the wrong way! It starts the electricity in pussy¬ 
cat’s fur, and wakes the half-asleep individuality in 
a human being. She thought about this for some 
few minutes—she also tried to recall the Philoso¬ 
pher’s various rudenesses, cynicisms, and ugly, un¬ 
becoming ways—but, considered in the recent light 
in which he had shown his character, they were not 
so very bad,—they all “seemed now in the waste 
of years, such a very little thing!” 

“I’m sorry!” she said, half aloud to the silence 
around her. “Sorry I misunderstood his tempera¬ 
ment! But he was ,—he could be quite odious and 
snappy!—and I’m sure he would have been twenty 
times worse as a husband!” 

Here her meditations came to an end—for a plead¬ 
ing voice said: 

“My 'rose-lady’! All alone^ May I come in'?” 

And Jack entered, holding out his hand, in the 
palm of which lay a little heart-shaped gold brooch. 

“I’ve brought this back to you, dear!” he said, 
his voice tremulous as he spoke. “I managed to keep 
it all through everything,—you remember giving it 
to me? It’s been my safe-conduct!—yes!—I used 
to feel I couldn’t lose my grip on life as long as I 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 259 


had it with me. Now let me put it back on this 
dear little neck”—and kneeling in front of her he 
pinned it carefully among the lace of her gown. 
“There! It has seen a lot of fighting!—but I’ve 
brought it home to its sweet and beautiful native 
peace. And now—” 

She was silent, but tears filled her eyes—and, as 
he knelt before her, his face upturned to hers, she 
gently put her arms round his neck and kissed him. 
With that she sealed her fate and settled her future. 


CHAPTER XIX 


'T V HE next day,—oh, that next day! A day 
-*■ never to be forgotten by the pretty little Senti¬ 
mentalist, though it left the Philosopher unmoved, 
or, as the slangy newspapers say, “cold.” He 
“knew it all the time,” he declared, and maintained 
an ineffable composure when Sylvia was called into 
her father’s study to receive the news. The worthy 
old doctor was slightly nervous. 

“My dear,” he began, and his voice trembled,— 
then again—“My dear!” 

“Yes, Dad! What is it?” And Sylvia, wonder¬ 
ing a little at his tone and manner, put her arm 
about him, and repeated: “What is it?” 

“My dear!” said her father again, possessing him¬ 
self of the little hand that lay caressingly on his 
shoulder. “You are a lucky little girl! What do 
you think? Jack—your Jack—is a very rich young 
man! Very rich! Do you understand?” 

Her blue eyes opened wide. 

“Very rich? Dad, what do you mean?” 

“Mr. Durham told me all last night,” went on 
Dr. Maynard, now feeling more secure of his 
ground, “after you had gone to bed. Sylvia, Mr. 
Durham is a millionaire!” 

“A millionaire!” echoed Sylvia, with a little gasp. 
“Oh, Dad! And Jack—” 

“Jack is to have everything his father can give 

260 



LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 261 


him/’ continued Maynard. “Yes, everything! His 
father is making him the head of his business in the 
States; and his marriage settlement—well!—my 
dear child!—it is amazing!—most generous and 
magnificent! He told me he had determined to do 
nothing for his son till he had 'proved his mettle’— 
but now!—now, since the boy went to fight of his 
own free will and choice, and nearly sacrificed his 
life in the war, he has no hesitation in making him 
the sharer of all his wealth. And you—you”—his 
voice trembled, and he put out his arms and drew 
her closely to him—“you will be a rich woman, my 
child!—safe from all care and harm,—thank God 
for that!—you will have all the comfort and charm 
of life such as you should have—and when I am 
gone—” 

“Oh, but you’re not going, Dad!” she exclaimed, 
half laughing and crying together. “If I am rich, 
really rich, the first thing to be done is to publish 
your great book!—yes, Dad!—the very first thing! 
That Oxford publisher will take it all right now!” 

Her affectionate delight in this idea was irresisti¬ 
ble, and as she clung tenderly round her father’s 
neck and kissed him again and yet again she might 
have been a mere child in the simplicity of her joy 
at the thought of being able to launch the ponderous 
“Deterioration of Language” on an indifferent 
world. 

“I must go and tell Mr. Craig,” she said, then— 
“I must let him know that there will be no difficulty, 
and no expense spared.” Here she clapped her 
hands. “No expense spared! Just think of it!” 



262 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 


Dr. Maynard smiled. 

“My dear, my dear!” he remonstrated. “You 
must ask Jack—” 

“Jack will do anything I tell him!” she declared. 
“And he’ll be proud—ever so proud, to help pub¬ 
lish your great, great book! Of course he’ll be 
proud! Who wouldn’t be!” 

“My dear child!” and her father shook his head 
at her deprecatingly. “You don’t seem to grasp the 
position! Here you are, engaged to marry the heir 
to millions of dollars and you think of nothing but 
my tiresome old book! Very sweet of you, but not 
very reasonable, is it 4 ? Jack may prefer to buy a few 
diamonds for you, rather than pay for the printing 
and publishing of work which is certain not to be 
favoured by the general public—” 

She interrupted him with a kiss. 

“Diamonds!” she exclaimed. “Diamonds for 
mel Absurd! Just think of it! I don’t want them, 
Dad! They wouldn’t suit me—I’d rather have— 
roses!” 

She ran off gaily and sought the Philosopher, 
whom she found smoking in the loggia which led 
out of the drawing-room into the garden. As he 
saw her coming he held up a warning hand. 

“Now, don’t!” he said. “Don’t rush at me with 
your news because I know it already! I told you— 
or rather I hinted—that old Durham was a million¬ 
aire. His nut-cracker face expressed it. A hard old, 
close-fisted, never-give-in, American grasper and 
grabber!” Here he smiled benevolently. “And 
now he’s loosened the strings of his money-bags 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 263 

in favour of his only son, as he should do, during 
that son’s life-time—an eminently practical arrange¬ 
ment—saves all the death duties. And you ”—here 
he bent his fuzzy brows and looked searchingly at 
her—“you will be one of the richest little ladies in 
the world!—dear, dear me! I wonder how you’ll 
stand it!” 

She came close to his side and stood looking at 
him wistfully. Somehow, despite his rather shabby 
old coat and not very well arranged hair his person¬ 
ality had a singular attractiveness,—a something 
quite out of the common. Out of the common!— 
yes—that was it! Intellectuality had graven cer¬ 
tain distinctive marks on his features not found 
among “ordinary” men, and she bethought herself 
that she had seen these very lines of thought, study 
and attainment smooth out into an almost boyish 
softness when his eyes had rested on herself, or 
when she had looked up at him in quiet attention as 
she was looking now. 

“You wonder how I’ll stand it!” she said. “Be¬ 
ing rich? Yes,—I wonder how I will! Not very 
wisely, I’m afraid! I’ve never been rich,—and just 
now I can only realise one advantage of it—I can pay 
all the expenses of publishing Dad’s book!” 

The Philosopher drew his pipe slowly from his 
mouth and looked at it. 

“Oh, that’s what you want to do, is it?” he re¬ 
marked, somewhat gruffly. “Well! I’m not sur¬ 
prised! Very sentimental, and very like you! To 
put your first big pocket-money into the ready maw 
of a publisher is just what I expected of you!” 


2G4 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

She came a little closer, and touched his hand 
timidly. 

“You are trying to be sarcastic,” she said. “But 
you know you’re not, really! You know it’s right 
for me to help Dad,—and you know it’s a pleas¬ 
ure—” 

“Dad’s not a pauper,” he interrupted. “To hear 
you talk one would think he was! Why, my dear 
child, he’s been paying me for my services in the 
revision and completion of his work—” 

“I know he has!” and she lifted her eyes trust¬ 
fully to his face. “But he couldn’t very well afford 
it. You see, you’ve been very kind and patient, and 
no doubt you have made it easy for him—but now 
—now—” 

“Now—now—what?” and the Philosopher 
wrinkled his face up in an alarming frown. “Now 
you propose to foot the bill? Nothing of the kind! 
I won’t have it! Do you understand? Sentiment 
can go too far—it always does with you! —but in 
this particular case I won’t have it! I decline to 
be affronted,—even by you!” 

“Affronted? Oh, I wouldn’t vex you for the 
world!” And quick tears sprang to her eyes. “In¬ 
deed I wouldn’t! I want to tell you how sorry I 
am—very, very sorry!” 

“Sorry for what?” 

And the words were more like a snap than a 
phrase. 

Her little hand pressed closer on his arm. 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 265 


“For many things!” she murmured, penitently. 
“I’m sure—I see now that I have often quite mis¬ 
understood you—” 

“Naturally!” he interrupted. “Pm not easy to 
understand! I should despise myself if I were! 
'To be great is to be misunderstood.’ You’ll find 
that in Emerson’s Essays.” 

She gazed at him wonderingly. 

“That’s clever talk,” she said. “Or I suppose it 
is. I’m talking just simply—I want to say what I 
feel—” 

“Never do that!” and he smiled. “People who 
say what they feel never have any friends!” 

She gave a little movement of impatience. 

“Oh, you won’t be serious!” she exclaimed. “I 
really do wish to make you see what I mean! 
You’ve been so very, very good and kind to Jack 
—you’ve done so many generous things—and I 
thought you were quite different,—I thought you 
were selfish—” 

“So I am!” he declared. “Thoroughly, hope¬ 
lessly selfish! Now listen to me, you funny child! 
—listen, and you’ll see how selfish I am!” Here he 
took the little hand that lay on his arm and looked 
at it. “Not wearing an engagement ring yet*? No? 
Ah, but you’ll have it on to-day some time, mark 
my words! And I thank heaven I’m not the man 
to give it to you!” 

Her soft blue eyes questioned him silently. 

“Don’t look at me like that!” he said, gruffly. 
“It makes no effect upon me! It’s very pretty— 



266 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

but Pm not to be ‘drawn’! I say I thank heaven 
I’m not the man who will put an engagement ring 
on that little finger of yours! I might have been! 
—it was a near thing at one time, wasn’t it*?—that 
was when I thought it was all up with Jack and 
that you might be left all alone in the world. In 
that case I should have had to marry you!” 

“Had to marry me?” she echoed,—and she with¬ 
drew her hand from his. “Surely there was no com¬ 
pulsion?” 

“Oh, wasn’t there!” and he nodded portentously. 
“To my mind there was! Duty, duty! I consid¬ 
ered myself bound to look after you. Why? Be¬ 
cause you are a little sentimentalist, likely to be 
duped and c done’ by every one that £ speaks you fair.’ 
You are bound to be protected and defended from 
a mischievous world. I was prepared to do it—I 
would have made the sacrifice—I would have sub¬ 
mitted to the rack!” 

“Oh!” And she lifted her head a trifle proudly. 
“Then, out of kindness—or pity—you would have 
married me against your own inclination?” 

He sought for his tobacco pouch and began re¬ 
filling his pipe. A little smile was on his lips. 

“Against my own inclination? I should think so! 
—very much against it! God bless my soul! Think 
of my having to give up my splendid solitude, my 
days and nights of peace and happiness, just to be 
at the beck and call of a little woman who doesn’t 
know her own mind clearly for two days together! 
I doubt if you are even now quite sure as to which 



LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 267 

man would make you the best husband—I or Jack!” 

She flushed a sudden crimson—tears sprang to her 
eyes—and she turned away her head. Quietly and 
almost tenderly he took her hand in his own and 
patted it. 

“There, there!” he said. “I know you better 
than you know yourself! You are tormenting your 
mind with all sorts of foolish ideas,—sentimental 
ideas,—Tve always told you that you will overdo 
the sentiment! You are thinking that perhaps you 
have treated me a little unfairly,—that when I ven¬ 
tured to suggest myself as a kind of protective wall, 
—that is to say a husband—between you and a rough 
world—your refusal disappointed me—or hurt me. 
You are quite mistaken! I was”—here he drew a 
long breath—“yes!—I was thankfull The relief 
was simply immense! If you had accepted my 
proposition—well!—I should have been utterly mis¬ 
erable! Yes!—I should have done my duty of 
course—I should have resigned myself to the slavery 
of married life with my usual philosophy—I should 
not have complained—and—and—I should have 
tried to be kind to you—but my life would have 
been a slow martyrdom! A fact! Ah, you may look 
at me as long as )%u like with those baby blue eyes 
of yours!—you will never discover anything in me 
but what you always saw and recognised from the 
first—sheer, downright selfishness! That’s it! 
What do you suppose I took so much trouble over 
Jack Durham for*? Simply that he might get home 
and marry you —and so relieve my mind of a great 





268 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

burden. Many a time I was afraid he would die 
—and in that case I should have got in for it!—all 
up with me!—an elderly Benedick—” 

She took her hand away from his. 

“You really mean it?” she asked. 

“Mean,—what ?” 

“That it would have been a great misery for you 
to have married me?” 

She spoke so wistfully and her sweet upturned 
face expressed such innocent wonder that with all 
his best effort he had much ado to keep his self- 
possession. As she had released his hand, he took 
to fumbling in his tobacco pouch. 

“I will not say £ a great misery,’ ” he replied. 
“That is too strong! But it would have been— 
yes!—a great inconvenience!” 

She was silent a minute,—then she said: 

“Well, I’m very glad you have been so frank 
with me! I was rather unhappy—because—because 
—you’ve been so good, and I have misunderstood 
you. You have really saved Jack’s life—” 

“For my own selfish purposes,” he put in. 

“You may say that if you like!” and she gave a 
little gesture of incredulity. “But even if he had 
not lived, you need not have married me, surely! 
That is such a strange idea of yours! I should have 
refused you all the time!” 

“Would you?” His eyes met hers for one sec¬ 
ond, then he turned away and lit his pipe. “I dare 
say you would! Anyhow as things have turned out, 
all is for the best! Jack is alive and well—Jack is 
a millionaire—and you are going to marry him, and 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 269 

publish your father’s book. Nothing could be more 
satisfactory. And you will be a happy, fortunate, 
brilliant little lady,—much loved and well taken 
care of—and I—” 

“Yes? What of you?” 

He smiled into her questioning eyes. 

“I? I shall live in my usual way—a placid, com¬ 
fortable, easy way—a selfish way—the life of a 
student and philosopher. I suppose I shall see you 
sometimes—” 

“Oh, very often!” she said, quickly. 

“Well!—very often then!” he agreed. “And I 
shall be glad to see you happy—” 

“And will you be happy yourself?” she asked. 

“Most assuredly! Why should I not be so? No 
wife, no household cares, no domestic squabbles,— 
just myself to consider and only myself. There 
now!—you look quite incredulous!—and why are 
you incredulous? Simply because you have too 
much sentiment. You imagine that happiness con¬ 
sists in being loved,—perhaps it does—for a time—” 

“Only for a time?” she queried, with uplifted 
eyebrows. 

“Of course—everything is only for a time—life 
itself is only for a time. Love—or what is called 
love, is more transitory than life. Look at the war 
widows! They were supposed to dove’ their hus¬ 
bands—but they are quite ready and eager to take 
on new men. No, my dear child!—there’s no such 
thing as what you imagine to be ‘love.’ And you 
need not for one moment make me an object of com¬ 
passion in your mind—because I know that fact 




270 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 


and accept it. Possibly when I was younger, a 
woman might have liked me, or I might have liked 
a woman for a month or so—” 

She laughed. 

“As you like me !—or thought you did!” she said. 
“And you would have married me on that basis—if 
I would have had you!” 

He smiled—that peculiarly attractive smile of his 
which made the plain, hard, intellectual lines of his 
face soften and become handsome. 

“True! If you would have had me!” he echoed. 
“And I should have done my duty in taking care 
of you,—lest the winds of heaven should visit your 
face too roughly.” His voice was for the moment 
almost musical in its tone of kindness. Then he took 
her hand. “There, little girl! Don’t worry your¬ 
self or give another thought to this grumpy old fel¬ 
low! You may make yourself quite sure that I am 
entirely happy—happy to have known you, for you 
are a winsome little creature!—and happier still to 
have been useful in bringing back the man you love 
and who loves you, to his home and good fortune. 
And”—here he paused for a moment meditatively— 
“if I am perfectly candid with you—brutally can¬ 
did !—I am happiest of all in the positive knowledge 
that you are marrying Jack, and not me! That’s a 
great mercy! I thank heaven for my freedom!” 

She gave him one flashing upward glance, half of 
doubt, half of anger, and pulled her hand away 
from his,—then, turning with a swift little rush of 
her light feet and soft garments she ran out of the 
room. 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 271 


He looked after her,—and his whimsical, indul¬ 
gent smile brightened his features like a glimpse of 
the sun. Then he heaved a long sigh. 

“That’s over!” he said, soliloquising to the air. 
“She’ll be all right now! No more sentimentality 
on my behalf! And I think—yes, I really do think 
I have told enough lies for one day!” 


CHAPTER XX 


T IME has a trick of flying when most we wish 
it to linger, and with Sylvia the three months’ 
interval between Jack’s return and her wedding day 
seemed little more than a few moments. She had 
everything to think of—everything to do—and hard¬ 
est of all, everything to resign that she had held dear 
and precious in the simple home life of her maiden¬ 
hood which had now come to an end. Jack was 
the tenderest and most devoted of lovers; the knowl¬ 
edge, which had surprised himself, of his father’s 
great wealth and his own participation in it made 
no difference in his simple boyish ways, and frank 
unassuming demeanour, and all he seemed to think 
about it was that he could give his “rose-lady” the 
comforts, luxuries and prettinesses of life which she, 
in his mind, above all other women, deserved. 
When he set his engagement ring in a star of the 
purest diamonds on her little white finger and she 
mildly protested at the evident costliness of the gems, 
he said fervently— 

“What were they ever made for except to shine 
for you! They are only bits of carbon after all— 
hardly worth your wearing!” 

And, seeing him thus “far gone,” she said no more. 
But often when the brilliant flash of the jewels on 
her hand caught her eyes she was conscious of a sad¬ 
ness inexplicable to herself,—the ring was a symbol 

272 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 273 

of the end of one life and the beginning of another— 
the end of the simple, quiet “monotonous” country 
life she had led with her father,—and the beginning 
of a new and strange existence in which wealth 
would almost enforce social excitements and pleas¬ 
ures for which she had no great avidity. 

“I had better have been the wife of an Oxford 
professor!” she said to herself, once in a little shame¬ 
faced way. “Only Pm not clever enough!” 

And she took solitary farewell walks round the 
garden, and daily sat with her “Dad” in his study, 
moved by a vague sorrow and regret which she could 
not express without seeming more or less ungrateful 
to Jack and his father, both of whom vied with 
each other in “surprise” gifts and plans for her spe¬ 
cial pleasure. She knew she was a fortunate girl— 
she ought to consider herself so, as being beloved, 
honoured and safe for life; and yet—such are the 
curious contradictions and hesitations of human na¬ 
ture—she was not sure whether it would not have 
been better for her to be less fortunate,—to be one 
of those who “welcome each rebuff, that turns earth’s 
smoothness rough.” 

Not even the delightful business of choosing her 
“trousseau” which she was careful to make as simple 
and inexpensive as possible, quite charmed away the 
shadow of depression that now and then clouded her 
mind. 

“I ought really to have married quite a poor man,” 
she reflected, seriously. “I never dreamed Jack 
would be rich. I could always manage a simple 
house and simple ways of living—now if I were 


274 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

the wife of an Oxford professor—” She broke off 
in her meditations with a little sigh. “Only I never 
should be clever enough!” 

During this time the “Philosopher” was an ab¬ 
sentee,—he had undertaken to partially revise the 
proofs of “The Deterioration of Language” before 
bringing them on to Dr. Maynard for final correc¬ 
tion, and he had installed himself in his own col¬ 
legiate rooms for this purpose. The “great Book” 
was well on its way to be launched, like a literary 
Leviathan on the uneasy waters of public favour; 
the accepting publishers being fully nerved to the 
task by the “no expense to be spared” orders of the 
author’s prospective son-in-law, Jack Durham. And 
so the days and weeks went round in a swift circle 
till April showed a nymph-like face of tears and 
laughter through budding boughs of green and snowy 
garlands of wild cherry and pear-blossom, and the 
sunny morning dawned at last when the little “rose- 
lady” stepped forth from her maiden home to be 
married. Very sweet she looked in her soft gar¬ 
ments of white—very serious, too, with blue eyes 
more full of tears than smiles; and among the few 
intimate friends asked to the wedding there was not 
one who had not some under-consciousness of the real 
gravity of marriage for a girl who had led so quiet 
and simple a life as Sylvia Maynard. Always in the 
country,—always the one companion of her father 
—completely contented to be without “social 
gaieties” so-called,—what a change from such a 
peaceful little home and routine of daily duties to 
be the wife of a millionaire! 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 275 


Probably the thoughts of Walter Craig, F.S.A., 
who was, against his own inclination and protest, 
selected as “best man” by the bridegroom, wandered 
in this direction if one might form any opinion by 
the expression of his face. Once during the cere¬ 
mony he caught a fleeting, almost frightened glance 
from the little “sentimentalist” bride; and a most 
insane desire possessed him to take her up in his 
arms as Shakespeare’s Petruchio took his Katherine 
and run away with her,—but his furrowed features 
and formal demeanour showed nothing of the strife 
within him. He placed the “philosophic” curb on 
his emotions, and feigned an almost frigid indiffer¬ 
ence when with other friends in the vestry at the 
signing of the marriage register he was permitted to 
kiss the bride. All the village turned out to see the 
wedding, and as the happy pair came through the 
old church doorway the school children scattered a 
shower of spring blossoms at their feet, and, led by 
“Riverside Sam,” broke into a hearty cheer. A silver 
rain of new sixpences flung broadcast by old Mr. 
Durham rewarded their enthusiasm, whereat the 
Philosopher moralised somewhat after the style 
of the “melancholy Jaques”—“Money’s the only 
wear!” And then,—in another two or three hours, 
which seemed to her less than minutes, the little 
bride, half sobbing, yet checking her tears as much 
as she could, clung fondly to her father in a fare¬ 
well embrace, whispering, “I shall came back as soon 
as possible! You mustn’t feel lonely!” while she 
turned appealingly to the “Philosopher” saying— 
“Do stay with him for a little! Take care of him!” 


276 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

And with this she entered the beautiful “limousine” 
car, which was one of old Mr. Durham’s wedding 
gifts to his daughter-in-law, and was whirled away 
amid a shower of blossoms on her honeymoon with 
her proud and adoring young husband. A small 
group of friends gathered on the steps of the old 
Manor house to watch their departure,—more inter¬ 
ested in the reported wealth of the bridegroom and 
the bridegroom’s father than in anything else—and 
as they dispersed, some of them made remarks to one 
another such as: “Artful little girl! Quiet, but 
clever enough to catch a millionaire!” or “She must 
have known her game all the time!” and “A pity we 
did not know more of that dull old man in the fish¬ 
ing cottage! He pretended to be deadly poor—” 
“And that’s why we didn’t call!” observed one more 
honest than the rest. 

And so on, and so on. Perhaps the Philosopher 
—great light of Oxford, whom nobody present knew 
much about,—caught some of these sotto voce obser¬ 
vations,—perhaps not,—anyway his facial expres¬ 
sion became more and more saturnine and forbidding 
as he helped to “speed the parting guests.” The 
“dull old man in the fishing cottage,” millionaire 
Durham, did certainly gather up a few crumbs of 
“social” comment, and now and again a sardonic 
smile made extra wrinkles in his furrowed counte¬ 
nance, especially when one self-important personage, 
the local brewer, laid a patronising paw upon his 
shoulder, saying, “We must see more of you, Mr. 
Durham! Come and dine with us one day this 
week, will you*?” 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 277 

Whereat Durham replied slowly in a strong, nasal 
drawl: 

“Thank you! I guess not! I’ve been living here 
over two years and have never been asked out to 
dine before—it would seem kinder strange to me to 
be doing it now!” 

And the brewer retired discomfited, feeling the 
poignant flash of satire in the old man’s eyes more 
keenly than the blunt refusal of his invitation. 

The April evening closed in with sweet moisture 
and warm scent of flowers, and the old Manor house, 
full of bridal blossoms and “remainders” of the wed¬ 
ding, looked, despite its floral garlanding, strangely 
empty and deserted, bereft of the flitting presence of 
its fair little mistress who was its chief charm. 
Vainly old Dr. Maynard strove to be cheerful, but 
it was an evident effort, and though he said little, 
his sudden loneliness made him deeply grateful for 
the society of the Philosopher, who had decided to 
stay on at the Manor for a day or two;—the Senti¬ 
mentalist’s parting words “Take care of him!” had 
laid a sort of trust upon his mind which he was not 
disposed to ignore. Durham remained late, smoking 
and chatting till the moon lifted a silver round above 
the trees, and lighted the path to his cottage by the 
river; he was full of eager plans for the happy future 
of the just-wedded pair, and gave himself away quite 
unreservedly. Nothing was too good for them,—a 
beautiful house in town,—a flat in Paris—and other 
luxurious “fitments” of life which somehow, in the 
mind of the Philosopher at least, seemed unsuitable 
to the tastes and the temperament of the little “rose- 


278 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 


lady,”—a creature “toned to finest melodies, un¬ 
heard by grosser ears.” But he made no comment. 
It would have seemed ungracious to check the flow 
of affection and ungrudging munificence of a father 
for an only son by so much as a word. Yet he was 
in a sense relieved when the millionaire took his de¬ 
parture and left him alone with Dr. Maynard. 
“The Deterioration of Language” was a ponderous 
piece of work, but it had formed a link between them 
of interest and scholarship; it had brought them to¬ 
gether in pleasant and intimate relations, and it had 
been the means of letting a little light in upon his 
hitherto strictly locked and darkened prison-house 
of human motion,—such light as had, at odd mo¬ 
ments, blinded him into a faint belief that he was 
still young. On this particular night, after all the 
joyous stir of the wedding, and the subsequent 
silence and desertion of the house, he felt old- 
older than he cared to feel. He and the old doctor 
sat together in the study, smoking their pipes by 
a cheerful log fire,—for the April evenings were 
chilly,—and for some time they had hardly ex¬ 
changed a word. A somewhat heavy sigh from 
Maynard roused the Philosopher to attention. 

“Don’t 'grouse’!” he said with a half smile. 
“That’s slang, I know, and I never use it—but if 
you sigh like a schoolboy, you merit a schoolboy’s 
reproach. It’s no use regretting,—it’s no use 
grumbling.” 

“I don’t regret,—I don’t grumble,” Maynard re¬ 
plied. “No, Craig! It’s not that. It’s the empti- 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 279 

ness of things without her—the silence—the soli¬ 
tude—” His voice trembled—then failed. 

Craig was silent for a minute. Then he said: 

“Of course! I quite see your point,—I under¬ 
stand. I feel it myself. Possibly you don’t realise 
that, eh? I feel it myself!” 

Dr. Maynard’s hand went over his eyes, shading 
them from the fire. 

“Such a bright little girl!” he murmured. 
“Always about the house—always with a smile and 
kind word for every one! I don’t know how I shall 
get on without her!” 

The vision of a fair little face—the memory of a 
hand pressure and whispered word “Take care of 
him,” came over the mind of the Philosopher, and 
he rose to the occasion. 

“How you’ll get on without her?” he echoed. 
“Why, you’ll get on famously for the short time 
you’re asked to do it. God bless me! One would 
think the girl had gone for good! She’ll be back 
again in a fortnight—trust her for that! And you’ll 
walk about triumphantly as the proud papa of a 
millionairess. How will you like that?” 

The old doctor looked up at him rather wist¬ 
fully. 

“I don’t think the part will suit me!” he said. 
“For one thing, Craig—I can tell you I’ve put by 
enough money to leave Sylvia quite well off on her 
own account—she would not have needed all this 
wealth—” 

The Philosopher gave himself a mental rap. “I 


280 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

always thought so!” he said, inwardly. “The old 
boy has plenty—I knew he had!” 

“I never spent much on myself,” went on May¬ 
nard. “I meant to afford the expenses of my book 
—though I felt it would be robbing Sylvia of some 
of her heritage—but when she showed such delight 
at doing it for me—” 

“Exactly!” commented the Philosopher. “She 
has thought you a sort of literary pauper—that’s her 
'sentiment’! I always told her she was wrong! 
Just as I told her old Durham was an American 
Croesus. I was right—but she wouldn’t believe me. 
You two fathers are artful dodgers in my opinion! 
You’ve both been playing poverty—regular old 
humbugs! I always thought you were!” Here he 
smiled, genially. “But I felt that if circumstances 
compelled me to marry Sylvia I should marry quite 
a nice little fortune!” 

Maynard gave him a quick, reproachful glance. 

“Craig!” he exclaimed. “Was that your idea 
when—when—’ ’ 

“When I proposed to her 4 ?” finished the Philoso¬ 
pher, equably. “Of course! What else should I 
have had in the way of an idea 4 ? Love 4 ?” Here 
he gave a sort of growling laugh. “Love 4 ? I’m too 
old—too ugly!—too battered and bruised in the 
battle of life to be conscious of any remedy for my 
disfigurements and disabilities,—but I’m quite ca¬ 
pable of appreciating the comfort of a warm fire¬ 
side, a pretty woman to look after me, and money 
to pay for these luxuries. I had all this in view 
when I suggested myself as a wall—” 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 281 


“A wall?” repeated Maynard, bewildered. 
“What—” 

“What meaning have I?” and the Philosopher 
gave another odd laugh. “I say a wall! £ A sweet 
and lovely wall, that stand’st between her father's 
ground and mine’—to quote the ever-quotable 
Shakespeare. I might say T am that same wall’— 
who was willing to stand between your little girl and 
the roaring lion of the world—that is, if things had 
come to the worst,—if young Durham had died—if 
you had died—and she had been left alone,—then 
perhaps I—I might have been useful!” He paused 
a moment—Dr. Maynard was regarding him fixedly. 
“Now as matters have turned out, the 'wall’ is un¬ 
necessary—Durham is all right, and you are all 
right—J am all right!” 

Here he put his pipe in his mouth and drew a 
long whiff. Dr. Maynard leaned forward in his 
chair. 

“Craig,” he said, slowly. “You are not altogether 
an open book—but I think I can read you!” 

The Philosopher avoided his direct gaze. 

“I dare say you can!” he murmured, abstractedly. 
“I don’t mind if you do! I’m an uncouth phrase in 
‘The Deterioration of Language’!” 

The old doctor’s eyes rested on him with intently 
sympathetic kindness. 

“I believe,” he said, “I believe you loved my little 
girl! Yes, Craig!—it was rather late in your day 
for love—but I believe you really loved her!” 

The Philosopher drew his pipe from his mouth, 
looked down at it and smiled. 


282 LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

“Why use the past tense?” he queried, lazily. 
“Let’s revert to Shakespeare—‘Love is not Love, 
which alters when it alteration finds; oh, no, it is 
a neved fixed mark, that looks on tempests and is 
never shaken.’ That’s me! I’m an ‘ever fixed 
mark’! Moreover, at my age, I’m not likely to 
change.” 

“Is it as bad as all that?” and Maynard’s voice 
was almost compassionate. 

“Not at all—it’s as good as it can be!” and the 
Philosopher lifted himself out of his sunken atti¬ 
tude in his armchair with a swift movement. “Noth¬ 
ing bad about it! I have built a little shrine in the 
recesses of my mind, and I’ve put a little Madonna 
inside. I shall say prayers to her now and then— 
and when I feel disposed to hate all mankind, I shall 
mutter an ‘Ave’ or a ‘Peccavi’ and pull myself to¬ 
gether. My Madonna will always be just a pure 
little English maid among roses, with sentimental 
ideas about love and life in general—but she will 
serve me as well as most Madonnas—even the Ma¬ 
donna of Cimabue could never have been treated 
with more tenderness than I would have treated her 
—I mean, than I will treat her in my thoughts.” 

He paused,—his pipe had gone out, and he struck 
a match and re-lit it. “You see, Maynard! That’s 
my late—very late!—idea of love!” 

The old doctor was silent for some minutes—then 
he laid a hand, with gentlest touch, on that of his 
friend and literary co-adjutor. 

“Such an idea is never too late!” he said. “Un¬ 
selfish—beautiful—and romantic in these unroman- 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 283 

tic days! But it’s not an idea that would satisfy 
most men!” 

“I’m not of the company of 'most’ men,” put in 
Craig. “I claim to be original!” 

“Ah, dear me!” sighed Maynard. “Age—age!— 
what joys it steals away from us!—now if you had 
been younger—she might have cared—” 

Craig laughed. 

“She might—she might!” he echoed. “My good 
fellow age has nothing to do with it! Men of sev¬ 
enty and eighty are young and frisky and marry the 
most charming women! I certainly feel myself to 
be a bit in the ‘sere and yellow’—especially to¬ 
night,” here he rose from his chair and stretched 
himself, yawning as he did so, “but not so much 
so that I wouldn’t have risked taking care of Sylvia 
if the better man hadn’t turned up in time—” 

“I wonder if he is the better man!” interrupted 
Maynard, suddenly. “He’s a worthy young fellow 
enough—” 

“And I’m an unworthy old fellow!” responded 
the Philosopher quietly. “Stop it at that! Talk no 
more about it! You get off to bed—you’ve had a 
trying day. And to-morrow we’ll take a run to¬ 
gether to Oxford and look after your publisher and 
your proofs. Push everything else aside for the 
present—” 

“Oxford?” exclaimed Maynard, wonderingly. 
“Am I to go to Oxford?” 

“Of course you are!” and the Philosopher bent his 
brows commandingly. “You’re wanted there to at¬ 
tend to business. And this is your opportunity while 


284 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

your daughter is away—you don’t need to stay here 
in her absence. Besides, business is business. You 
can share my rooms and welcome. You want a 
change.” 

“Oxford!” repeated the old scholar, dreamily. 
“It is many years since I was there! I shall like to 
see it again!” 

“Of course you will!” responded Craig. “Who 
doesn’t like to see Oxford!—the abode of Age and 
Youth pleasantly combined! The age part of it is 
dry as dust, the youth raw as green cucumbers—but 
they make an amusing mixture. The bones of classic 
authors rattle in the air of the old University town— 
and the rampant flesh and blood of the non-classic 
'rising generation’ make uncouth noises as of vam¬ 
pires who have sucked out the strength of the dead. 
Yes!—Oxford is full of suggestiveness—you will 
enjoy it!” 

The old doctor smiled. 

“I believe it’s all your good-natured idea to pre¬ 
vent my feeling lonely!” he said. “But I’ll go with 
you if you like—” 

“If you don’t you’ll be carried!” returned Craig, 
firmly. “Make up your mind to that! And now 
let’s get to bed—you’re tired and I’m tired! Wed¬ 
dings are very exhausting affairs for all concerned— 
even for the bride and bridegroom.” 

They left the study together and at the foot of the 
staircase which led to the upper rooms, Dr. Maynard 
paused— 

“Craig,” he said, with pathetic earnestness. “Do 
you think she will be happy?” 


LOVE,—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 285 


The Philosopher looked at the old, frail figure 
compassionately. “Of course she will!” he replied. 
“Why shouldn’t she be? She has everything to 
make her so!” 

“Yes—yes! That’s all very well!” and Maynard 
gave a half deprecating gesture. “But when the 
years go on, when the novelty has worn off—will she 
be able to live the life of social excitement wealth 
entails?—will she realise the wonderful love she has 
dreamed of? For she has always been a little 
dreamer of ideals—beautiful ideals all!—ideals such 
as the world loves to pull down into ruin!” 

The Philosopher felt a little pang. Too well he 
knew the “ideals” of the little “Sentimentalist,” and 
too well he was aware that he himself had discour¬ 
aged them and striven to pull them down—and yet 
—and yet—he had done his utmost to give her the 
“ideal” love he imagined she recognised in Jack Dur¬ 
ham. He pulled himself together. 

“We must leave all that to her husband,” he 
said. “He adores her—and depend upon it he will 
make her happy—that is as happy as any woman 
can be. You must bear in mind, Maynard”—here 
he became almost academical in tone—“that no 
woman is ever happy for long! It isn’t in her nature 
to be satisfied. When she has got one thing she 
wants another—and so on to the end of the chapter. 
But Sylvia has too good and sweet a character to 
be as variable and restless as most of her sex. Hav¬ 
ing Jack she has her heart’s desire—she doesn’t want 
Mel —or any other man! Good night!” 

They parted then; but when he had locked him- 



286 LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 

self in his bedroom the Philosopher went to its old- 
fashioned lattice window and threw it widely open. 
The night was beautiful; clear moonlight flooded 
the whole garden space, and he could see the winding 
alley of the rose-walk where on one never-to-be-for¬ 
gotten day he had “lacerated” his hand in trying to 
gather a blush rose-bud for the “rose-lady” and she 
had “kissed the place and made it well.” It was a 
trifling incident, but to the would-be stoical and 
grimly cynical mind of the “Philosopher” it had 
meant a great deal. And now! Well!—now this 
was the first night of her honeymoon;—this was her 
marriage moonlight; and he—he stood outside the 
garden of Eden with no more roses to gather! 
Learning and scholarship, fame itself, seemed utterly 
worthless in comparison with the union of hearts 
beating with and for each other—the wisdom of the 
ages was dull, wearisome and all unsatisfying meas¬ 
ured against the enchantment of tender eyes and 
caressing hands; and it was with something of a 
sharp mental pang that he recalled the sound of a 
sweet voice softly reciting from “Endymion” the 
“honey and water” lines— 

“The silver flow 
Of Hero’s tears, the swoon of Imogen, 

Fair Pastorella in the bandit’s den, 

Are things to brood on with more urgency 
Than the death-day of empires!” 

“True enough!” he murmured, addressing the 
quiet air. “When one is young—true enough! But 
when one is old—” 


LOVE—AND THE PHILOSOPHER 287 


The run of his thoughts checked itself abruptly. 
He looked out on the peaceful night with a sense 
of reverence and humility not usual to his nature. 
As in a magic mirror he saw his past life lying be¬ 
hind him,—a bare road tramped in the dusty pursuit 
of fame—fame the foolish, fame the variable, fame 
the most unsatisfying of earthly rewards, bringing 
in its train the vulgar inquisitiveness of mobs, the 
censoriousness of the envious and the detraction of 
rivals, inasmuch as even the greatest of men, like 
Shakespeare, are remembered chiefly to be calum¬ 
niated,—and anon, he gazed forward into the future 
which for him meant nothing but increasing loneli¬ 
ness and gradual sinking away from life and its 
brighter pleasures; then he lifted up his eyes to the 
lovely heavens and saw one bright star shining in 
the trail of the moon. 

“Is it the tender star of love 
The star of love and dreams'? 

Oh, no! From that blue tent above 
A hero’s armour gleams!” 

A brief sigh escaped. 

“I’m no hero!” he said. “But old as I am, I’m 
glad I’m man enough to be capable of a great love! 
—and—a great sacrifice!” 


THE END 








































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